What Others are Saying About

Confessions of a Prayer Slacker

“Written to the slacker in all of us, Diane Moody turns our ‘tired’ into triumph by helping us clear the path to meaningful time with God.”

—Nicole Johnson, author and dramatist with Women of Faith

“I’ve read several books about prayer over the years but this one is by far my favorite! Diane is a gifted writer who will help you uncover so many misconceptions you’ve picked up which have damaged your prayer life over the years. I can’t tell you how many ‘ah-ha’ moments I had in the midst of this enlightening, inspiring, read. I’ve been inspired to start an entire new prayer journey!”

—Pete Wilson, pastor of Cross Point Community Church, Nashville, Tennessee, and author of Plan B and Empty Promises

“With fresh writing and transparent stories, Diane Moody has done more than craft a book. She’s shared her heart in a way that I was inspired to seek to know God better, deeper. I have to admit once I started reading Confessions of a Prayer Slacker, I couldn’t read more than a few pages at a time. Why? My heart was so pricked I had to put down the book and PRAY! Success indeed!”

—Tricia Goyer, author of twenty-four books, including Blue Like Play Dough: The Shape of Motherhood in the Grip of God

“For many years, I have watched Diane’s passion and commitment to prayer. Forged by fire, God has given her a deep love for prayer which is contagious! This is not your everyday, ho-hum look at prayer. You will find yourself smiling . . .   okay, maybe outright belly laughing. But you will also be challenged, motivated and (prayerfully), radically impacted in your relationship with God. Prayer Slacker may just kick-start your conversations with God in a way no tall latte ever could!”

—Teresa Nardozzi, Director of Women's Ministries at First Baptist Church of Indian Rocks at Largo, Florida

“Confessions of a Prayer Slacker is phenomenal. It offers a new perspective on prayer in such a straightforward, genuine, and visual way. It grabbed and kept my attention from start to finish, through both laughter and tears. You have inspired me to stop being a slacker and start praying. Thank you for making it personal.”

—Cathy Weisbrodt, Nashville, Tennessee

“As a homeschooling mother of four, it is very easy for me to have a litany of excuses not to have a regular, daily prayer time with God. Diane Moody’s book has greatly encouraged me to meet with God daily and remember that prayer is a very meaningful way of developing a deep, committed, awesome relation with my Maker.”

—Anne Connell, Tallahassee, Florida

“Diane’s style is easy to read and honest. Prayer slackers beware! This book will grip your heart and challenge you to go to the next level.”

—Dennis Hayford, Director, Greater Mobile Area Fellowship of Christian Athletes, Mobile, Alabama

Other Titles from OBT Bookz

click the title for more information)

From Author Diane Moody

Of Windmills and War

The Runaway Pastor’s Wife

Blue Christmas

Blue Like Elvis

Tea with Emma

The Teacup Novellas (Book One)

Strike the Match

The Teacup Novellas (Book Two)

Home to Walnut Creek

The Teacup Novellas (Book Three)

At Legends End

The Teacup Novellas (Book Four)

From Author McMillian Moody

Ordained Irreverence – Elmo Jenkins (Book 1

Some Things Never Change – Elmo Jenkins (Book 2)

The Old Man and the Tea – Elmo Jenkins (Book 3

Special Bonus Book

For your continued reading pleasure we have included a complementary copy of Diane Moody’s novella Tea with Emma at the end of this book. – OBT Bookz

Tea with Emma – (Book One)

Strike the Match – (Book Two)

Home to Walnut Ridge – (Book Three)

At Legend’s End – (Book Four)

From Author McMillian Moody

Ordained Irreverence – Elmo Jenkins (Book 1)

Some Things Never Change – Elmo Jenkins (Book 2

The Old Man and the Tea – Elmo Jenkins (Book 3)

Copyright 2012 by Diane Moody

All rights reserved.

Cover design by OBT Bookz

Cover background image: ©Javarman | Dreamstime.com

Unless otherwise indicated, all scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked ESV are from the Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), Copyright ©2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®. Copyright ©1960, 1962, 1968, 1971, 1973, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright ©1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked HCSB are taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible®. Copyright ©1999, 2000, 2002, 2003 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Holman Christian Standard Bible®, Holman CSB®, and HCSB® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.

Scripture taken from The Message, copyright ©1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

New Look, Same Book

In 2010, Confessions of a Prayer Slacker released and launched a whole new world for me. My first book, my first book launch party, my first book signing, speaking invitations near and far . . . all about a quirky little book God laid on my heart. I was overwhelmed by the response, to be honest. When I think about the seeds the Lord planted in my heart about this unusual perspective on prayer and the way it’s been received, I have to laugh—not in ridicule, but sheer amazement at what He’s done through it.

We’ve had feedback from all over the country from folks who tell me their prayer lives have been completely changed after they’ve read my book. I can’t even begin to describe how humbled I’ve been by those messages. Small groups have used it as a study to rethink what prayer is all about and how to make it a daily habit. Last year, I had the privilege of leading a study based on it for some women in my church. What an honor it was to listen as those amazing women shared from their hearts about the power of prayer in their lives.

Two years later, the rights to this book have come home to me, and with them, a whole new chapter begins as our own OBT Bookz makes Confessions of a Prayer Slacker available as an e-book for the first time. I’m old style, still preferring to hold a traditional book in my hands as I read it, flipping pages and underlining here and there. But after my kids gave me a Kindle for Christmas, I realized the convenience and simplicity that e-books offer, along with the unlimited opportunities to make my books available all over the world with the click of a button. So I’m more than happy to step into the twenty-first century and see what God can do with my little book on prayer.

One last thought before you turn the page. I believe with all my heart that God has a wonderful sense of humor. I also believe He loves the sound of our heartfelt laughter. Keep that in mind as you read my book. My approach to the subject of prayer isn’t high-brow or deeply theological. It’s down to earth and practical. If laughter is considered good medicine and you’re looking for some inspiration served up with a side of whimsy, then I promise this book is for you.

May God bless you on your prayer journey!

Diane

April 2012

To Ken

Have I told you today

how much I love you?

How long will you stay in bed, you slacker?

When will you get up from your sleep?

—PROVERBS 6:9 (HCSB)

The mere fact that you picked up a book about prayer tells me you’re probably a Christian. You believe Jesus is the Son of God; and somewhere along the line, you asked Jesus to come into your heart, meaning you have a relationship with Him. Maybe you grew up in church, following the Lord from an early age. Maybe you were one of thousands at a Billy Graham crusade who went forward when the invitation was given, making a commitment to follow Christ for the rest of your life. Maybe you read a book by Rick Warren and learned about a purpose for your life through Jesus, or one of Max Lucado’s books that gave you a vivid, more personal vision of Christ’s gift of eternal life. Maybe the words of a hymn struck a chord in your heart. Maybe you became interested in Christ after observing a friend or neighbor who year after year exemplified the love of Christ in everything he ever did.

Or maybe yours was a most unusual moment of truth. Like twentieth-century American writer and editor Whittaker Chambers. A former member of the Communist party and a Soviet spy, Chambers tells of his conversion in his autobiography.

My daughter was in her high chair. I was watching her eat. She was the most miraculous thing that had ever happened in my life. My eye came to rest on the delicate convolutions of her ear—those intricate, perfect ears . . . The thought passed through my mind: ‘No, those ears were not created by any chance coming together of atoms in nature (the Communist view). They could have been created only by immense design.’ . . . I did not know that, at that moment, the finger of God was first laid upon my forehead.1

I get chills every time I read that. To think that the Creator of the universe, knowing exactly how Chambers’ mind worked, would draw his eye to notice the intricacies of his baby’s ear, and from that moment—that split-second of understanding—would help him come to believe in God. Talk about amazing grace!

Millions of people have been drawn to the Lord throughout history, each arriving at their belief on their own unique path. Sometimes we arrive there at the end of a broken dream or the result of some life-changing, crushing tragedy. We find ourselves without hope or purpose—apart from Him. Others simply acknowledge there’s got to be something more to life than mere human existence.

Each of us has an exclusive story telling how we came to find God. For centuries, preachers have told us about the “God-shaped hole” in all of us, put there by a loving Creator who wants to have a personal relationship with each one of us. How we respond to that holy hole in us makes all the difference.

Call me crazy, but every time I hear of another acclaimed “apparition” of Jesus or the Virgin Mary, I’m reminded just what a vacuum that God-shaped hole has come to be in our culture. When we lived near Clearwater, Florida, in December of 1996, one such apparition appeared on the side of a bank building on busy Highway 19. Just google “Marian Apparition in Clearwater” to see what all the fuss was about. Granted, I’m usually rather skeptical of these things, but I must say the resemblance was striking. The 60-foot image, apparently caused by a residue from sprinklers that routinely splashed against the two-story glass windows, became such a popular shrine for thousands of travelers from around the world that the bank inside had to close. Gridlock traffic required constant police presence. Then in 2004 an angry teenager threw a rock through the glass, shattering the image.

Of course, Clearwater wasn’t the first host of such religious apparitions. Back in 1978, a New Mexico woman noticed the mournful face of Jesus in skillet markings on her tortilla. More than 8,000 people journeyed to her home to view the image. Over 8,000! Then in 2004, a grilled cheese sandwich with the image of the Virgin Mary ended up selling on eBay for $24,000. For that kind of money, maybe I should check out the moldy items in my refrigerator. Yes, even now I see it— there, in Monday’s meatloaf. It’s the baby Jesus in a manger. Quick—someone call Geraldo Rivera. This is huge!

Okay, maybe I got carried away. And if these bizarre renderings somehow bring even one life to a saving faith in Christ, then I take back my sarcastic ridicule. But seriously, what could possibly drive tens of thousands to search for Jesus in a burrito or Mary in some holy toast?

I believe it’s that same God-shaped vacuum that dwells inside each of us. We know there’s something there, tugging at our souls. But we’re so out of touch with our Creator that we don’t even know what that “tug” is all about or where it’s coming from. So we look everywhere else on the planet to fill the void. With money, with material possessions, with relationships, with drugs and alcohol . . . It’s as if we’re on a mission to fill the void with everything but Him. Still, He never gives up. He keeps tugging and tugging and tugging. Why? Because God longs to have a personal relationship with you.

It doesn’t get any more personal than that. He loves you. And He wants to spend time with you.

And that’s where prayer comes in. If daily prayer has not been a part of your life as a believer, I can’t wait for you to discover what’s in store for you. I can tell you this: when you start spending time alone with God every day, you will never be the same. Friend, that’s a money-back guarantee.

But if you’ve not had that “come to Jesus” encounter in your life, I want you to take a moment and skipt to the back of the book to a section called “How to Become a Christian.” There you’ll find an explanation of what it means to follow Christ, then a simple prayer that will give you a chance to take care of the most important business in your life.

Finally, one more note before we begin. I feel the need to come clean, so let me just put it out there in bold print.

OFFICIAL AUTHOR DISCLAIMER:

I am not an authority on prayer.

I am not a preacher, priest, rabbi, minister, nun, evangelist, or seminary professor, nor am I a theologian with a boatload of credentials. Actually, I did earn a Ph.T. diploma—“Putting Hubby Through”—from a seminary in Texas, but that was more about paying the bills than studying the tenets of faith. Oh, I typed plenty of term papers for said husband on subjects such as systematic theology, apologetics, bibliology, hermeneutics, eschatology, and a bunch of other terms that all sound Greek to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I spent plenty of time praying during those early years in our marriage:

• God, please help us be able to pay the rent this month.

• Lord, please help me endure this stupid job until Ken graduates.

• Father, why on earth did you make Texas so darn HOT?!

• And what’s with all the big hair around here? These women look like a bunch of Texas tumbleweeds!

But unless typing and prayer-whining qualify me as some kind of prayer guru, then you’d have to agree I’m no expert on the subject. In other words, if you’re looking for teachings from one of the All-Stars of Christianity, I’m not your girl. What I can offer is an entire lifetime of struggling when it comes to prayer.

I’ve got shelves lined with books about prayer. I’ve tried prayer formulas. I even tried “praying the scriptures” when that technique appeared on the Christian horizon. Sometimes I’d be inspired by a sermon on the subject and recommit myself to pray daily. I’d buy a new notebook to organize my praying. I’d pick a time of day that best suited my schedule. And off I’d go . . . for a day or two. Time after time, I’d make the effort only to fail again and again. And with each failure, I’d hear that sarcastic and belittling voice in my head reminding me once again what a loser I was and what a sorry excuse for a Christian I’d become.

And so it was, year after year, decade after decade, I accumulated a mountain of self-imposed guilt. Eventually I gave up, convinced I’d never have a faithful and meaningful prayer life. And for someone who’s been in church since before I was born (Mom never missed a Sunday), that is not a good place to be.

Still, I know I’m not alone in this on-again, off-again battle. Show of hands: how many of you can say your prayer life is a consistent, daily habit, rich and full and spiritually satisfying? Wait. Maybe I should ask it another way. When was the last time you had a genuine, heart-to-heart chat with God? For the record, praying for a winning lottery ticket or a parking space close to the mall does not count.

Come on, be honest. Do you pray? I mean really pray. That shut-out-the-world, one-one-one, totally-focused, praising, worshiping, talking, and listening kind of prayerful communication with your heavenly Father, who loves you and yearns to spend time with you?

Right about here, you’d be duly impressed if I tossed in a few statistics about how many people pray, how often they pray, and how prayer has affected their lives. There are plenty of studies out there, all reaching conflicting conclusions depending on who is asking the questions, how they ask those questions, and what their underlying agenda is. But in the end, none of that really matters. Because my heart’s desire for this book is about your prayer life. Helping you find out what’s standing in the way of spending quality time every single day with God—the God who made you and cares enough about you to count the number of hairs on your head. Just think about that for a moment. Is it starting to sink in just how much He loves you?

So once and for all, let’s take a hard look at this matter of prayer. Don’t worry. I won’t be bombarding you with buckets of Latin or Greek terms (just a couple), nor will I be doing an exegesis of scripture. (Is it just me, or does “exegesis” sound like Exit, Jesus? And I’m sorry, but that’s just wrong.) Instead, let’s see if we can’t drop-kick all the excuses and find out about the significant, intimate treasure that awaits each one of us if only we’ll make time to spend with God.

O God, you are my God, earnestly

I seek you: my soul thirsts for you.

—PSALM 63:1

Okay, Okay. I know I said this book is about you, but first I need to give you a little background about my own experience. Why? Because you need to know I’ve really struggled to learn these life lessons. I’m guessing you’ve had similar struggles if you’ve ever tried to be even remotely faithful in your prayer life. And if you’re new to the whole concept of prayer, I hope you’ll discover at least a glimmer of inspiration to start making prayer as much a part of your every day life as breathing, starting today.

The first time I learned about having a personal prayer life happened on my first trip to church camp. I think I was in the fourth grade, so I must have been around nine or ten years old. Nunny Cha-Ha was a Southern Baptist summer camp for girls in Oklahoma. If you and I were having this discussion face to face, at this point I would break into song, serenading you with the Nunny Cha Ha camp song. After nearly half a century, I still remember that goofy little jingle. I’ll spare us both the embarrassment and move along.

The focus of that week was “learning how to listen to the voice of God” in what was dubbed “My Quiet Time with God.” You have to admire the camp leaders’ intent, but let’s be honest. Most pre-adolescents are clueless about such deeply spiritual goals, let alone the discipline to follow through on a daily basis. Still, good little camperettes that we were, we trekked across the campground after our counselors told us to find our “special place” to meet with God each day.

My special place was beneath a big tree. Like the infamous land-run settlers of Oklahoma’s colorful history, I staked out the perfect location. I busily cleared the dirt beneath my tree and lined it with little rocks, fashioned a cross out of two twigs, stuck it in the ground near the tree, and declared that it was good. I wiped my hands on my madras Bermudas, then plopped down, cross-legged on the dirt, ready to meet God. For an hour. One very long hour. Just me and God. God and me. Every single day of camp. Did I mention these quiet times were supposed to last an entire hour? I tried. Really I did.

“Now I lay me down to sleep . . .  ”

No. Wait. That’s a prayer for babies. I can surely do better than that. Ah! I’ve got it! The Lord’s Prayer! Much more grown-up. So I closed my eyes and recited the familiar words.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven . . .”

Art? I like art. I hope we get to paint this week. Maybe some watercolor . . .

“Hallowed by Thy name.”

I’ve never liked my name. Diane. It’s just so plain. Why couldn’t Mom and Dad have named me Veronica? Or Tabitha? Or Maria—like Maria Von Trapp in The Sound of Music. Oh my gosh, I love that movie!

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . .  ”

Be done, be done, be done . . .  will this Quiet Time ever BE DONE? I’m sooooo bored! B-O-R-E-D. BORED! BORED! BORED!

“On earth as it is in Heaven.”

I wonder if Julie Andrews and I will be friends in heaven. I loved her in Mary Poppins. I really liked that bag of hers. All that stuff just kept coming out.

“Give us this day, our daily bread . . .  ”

I’m so hungry, I could puke. I sure hope they don’t have Sloppy Joes today. Those were gross. Maybe we’ll have hot dogs. I’ll take mine with ketchup, no mustard. I hate mustard.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

What the heck is a trespass anyway? And why should I care if someone tresses past me?

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil . . .  ”

I am so tempted to short-sheet Sally’s bed. That would serve her right for stealing the top bunk.

“For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.”

This hour feels like forever. FOR-E-VERRRR.

Amen.

There. I prayed. Now what?

I thumbed through my Bible, not sure what to look for. Then I remembered something about confession, so I called up all the sins I could think of. I asked God’s forgiveness for being jealous of my perfect sister. I apologized for spending part of my tithe money on the new Monkees album. And I confessed my bad attitude about having to sit in the dirt and pray for a whole stinkin’ hour when I ’d rather be swimming. This last offense served to usher in a repeat practice I would later dub Prayer Guilt. In the years to come I would amass vast reservoirs of this guilt. But on that hot summer’s day long ago at Camp Nunny Cha Ha, I simply shrugged it off as I raced toward the mess hall.

As I mentioned earlier, I grew up in church. We lived in the suburbs but attended a large metropolitan church in the heart of downtown Tulsa. And when I say we attended, I mean that we were there Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday evening, and an occasional Friday night and/or Saturday for socials, choir rehearsals, banquets, revivals, or mission endeavors. We never missed. I’m pretty sure my parents borrowed their church attendance creed from postal workers because neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night could keep us from driving twenty-something miles to and from our beloved church.

Not that I minded. I loved going to church. All my best friends were there. We loved hanging out in that mammoth old building that occupied an entire city block. In fact, my earliest crushes were on boys at church. Granted, some of them never even knew I existed, but that’s beside the point. I could tune out every word of the sermon and spend the better part of the church service hour just staring across the balcony at Marcus. Then Rod. Then Steve. Oh yeah. Steve . . .

But somewhere along the line, I began to equate church attendance with being “spiritual.” And since we never missed, I figured I was quite the spiritual girl. Each week when I turned in my offering envelope, I checked off all those little boxes to show that I’d read my Bible, memorized a verse of scripture, prayed, gave an offering and attended worship service. For which I was awarded stars on a chart gracing our Sunday school door. That was me—Chrissy Christian, with the perfect attendance record to prove it.

And let’s not overlook the Bible. Over the years I was given a series of different Bibles. I loved having my own Bible with my name stamped in gold right there on the front cover. I had Bibles illustrated with color pictures of favorite Bible stories. Others with red letters to represent any words that came out of Jesus’ mouth. Soft leather Bibles. Hardcover Bibles with spines that eventually cracked. Tiny New Testaments to slip into my purse. Even a far-out, groovy edition in the ‘60s with psychedelic lettering on the front. Years later, when I grew up and started going to more in-depth Bible studies, it was all about the underlining, highlighting, and even an elaborate system of shading with colored pencils those passages we studied in class. My favorite Bible was one I purchased about fifteen years ago. Soft brown leather exterior with extra-wide margins on each page that gave me plenty of room to make notes or jot down questions. Yes, that’s me—Bible Barbie.

Amidst all the camp experiences, years of faithfully attending church every time the doors were open, and collecting all kinds of Bibles, I know we must have studied prayer. I’m sure many a Sunday school lesson addressed the subject. From an early age we learned to pray out loud in class. We were uncomfortable doing it, but we quickly learned that the shorter the prayer, the faster we’d get out of class. Thank-you- God-for-this-day-and-bless-the-missionaries-and-heal-the-sick- amen. And we were outta there!

Going Through the Motions

Still, as the years drifted by, for me it was all about the mechanics of prayer and Bible study and going to church. My motivations were all wrong, of course. But if I’m completely honest, I have to admit that very little seemed to sink in. I was in full-blown spoon-feed mode. I was much too caught up in playing the part of a Christian to be concerned with the depth of my spiritual life. Occasionally a crisis would pop up on the horizon, and I would pray as hard as I could. But God wasn’t fooled by my emergency-mode prayers. I could almost imagine Him saying, “How come you never talk to Me unless you’re in some kind of trouble?” A valid point, considering I’d basically ignored Him Monday through Saturday. Okay, and most of Sunday too.

During my college years, I went through some rough waters. I turned my back on God and decided to have some fun. I’m not going to share my dirty laundry and tell you any of the juicy details. Not gonna happen. Let’s just say I came to a fork in the road and chose the road more traveled. Not proud of it, but there it is. As I look back on those years, I have plenty of regrets. But God’s amazing grace was there waiting for me when I finally grew up and willingly “put away childish things” (1 Corinthians 13:11b, NKJV).

A few years down the road, God blessed me with the most patient and wonderful husband on the face of the earth. Not only is Ken my husband, he’s my best friend. We have two kids I could brag on ad nauseam. Hannah and Ben are the joy of our lives, and we couldn’t be more proud of them.

Entwined in those early years of marriage and starting a family, Ken finished seminary and began his ministerial career at a large church in Naples, Florida. We were there for five incredible years before leaving to serve at a church just three hours north in the St. Petersburg/Clearwater area. I’d always dreamed of living near the beach, and initially we loved living in the Sunshine State. We also loved the congregations and fellow staff members and their families.

A Spiritual Detour

But Ken’s tenure in church ministry didn’t end on a very happy note. Years after the fact, it’s easy to look back and see the hand of God through that long journey. But at the time? Not so much. Ken handled the whole situation with complete integrity and character. I’d always known he was an incredible man, but never before had I realized what a godly man he was. Like the biblical story of Daniel, Ken came through the fire, which didn’t destroy him but only made him stronger. I was so proud of him. I still am.

I’d like to tell you Ken’s wife (that would be me) came through the same fire with unfathomable grace, but that would be a lie. A great big fat whale of a lie. I was a train wreck, both emotionally and spiritually. I wasn’t angry at God, but my relationship with Him got caught in the undertow. For a season I wanted nothing to do with church. I’d had enough church to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

And as the months drifted by, I became more and more cynical about anything and everything remotely “Christian.” I got angry at pompous television preachers and their ridiculous gimmickry, not to mention their creepy wives with big, big hair and clown-like make-up. I judged many of them as outright frauds. (For the record, time would reveal several of these “ministers” were nothing more than con artists.)

I also became critical of what I called the “merchandising” of Christianity—a market saturated with WWJD wrist bands, “Jesus Loves Me” coffee mugs, Prayer of Jabez coasters, and John 3:16 bumper stickers. (In the spirit of complete transparency, I should probably mention a line of products my husband suggested we merchandise upon hearing I had sold the book you now hold in your hands. He came up with rainworthy Slacker Slickers, comfy Slacker Slippers, tasty Slacker Crackers (unleavened, of course), and even a companion prayer journal we’d call the Slacker Prayer Packer. Well, you get the idea. Coming soon to a flea market near you.)

Then God opened the door for us to move to Tennessee, something I’d wanted to do for several years. My sister and her family lived near Nashville, and we couldn’t wait to move there. We found a beautiful house surrounded by an acre and a half of wooded trees. I felt at home, back in a place that enjoyed all four seasons instead of just one.

Let me backtrack for a moment. There’s an old saying that goes, “Whenever one door closes, another one opens.” Then there’s the Christianese version that says, “When God closes a door, He always opens a window.” Those kinds of saccharine-sweet clichés normally gag me. But I have to say that we are living proof of this particular concept.

In what can only be considered an outright miracle, God provided an income for us after Ken lost his job at our church in Florida. Ken had been mentoring a church member who had created a company that provided Internet filtering for computers, providing a way to block pornography. When Remington decided he didn’t want to pursue the day-to-day demands his new company required, he literally offered the company to Ken, free and clear, if he wanted it. Cynic that I was at the time, even I could see that God had provided for us in a bold and miraculous way. Ken was able to work from our home, which allowed him to stay closely involved during our kids’ teen years. When you serve on a church staff, especially large metropolitan churches, you rarely have an evening at home with the family. This was a welcomed change that Ken and the kids and I loved.

So there we were—handed a dream job on a silver platter, living in a place we loved, thrilled to have Ken at home with us, and finally available to share in every fraction of our family life again. Sounds like heaven on earth, right? Then why was I still so miserable?

To help us get on our feet financially while Ken’s company began to grow, I took a job those first couple of years in Tennessee. It was a good job in a Christian company where I worked alongside some wonderful people. But I hadn’t worked outside the home for more than fifteen years, and I felt completely suffocated. I packed on a hefty number of unwanted pounds, which only added to my misery. And I noticed a snarky attitude creeping into every pore of my being. Not since the dark days of peri-menopause had I known such consuming angst and frustration. I was such a mess, I cried myself to sleep on December 31, 1999, while the rest of the world celebrated the arrival of a new millennium.

I couldn’t seem to shake the depression. I have no idea how Ken put up with me during those years. I butted heads constantly with our daughter and felt a growing distance with our son. But I knew no one was to blame but me. They were just kids—teenagers trying out their wings of independence.

Now, when I read back through my journals of those rocky times, I wonder why my family didn’t just put me in a strait- jacket and check me into someplace called Sunnydale or Happy Hills. Somewhere in a galaxy far, far away.

What’s especially peculiar to me as I think back on this time in my life is the fact that I never stopped to realize my depression and frustration might stem from a spiritual problem. I’ve told you before I’ve been a Christian almost my entire life. I’d studied the Bible and attended church and all those other things good Christians do. But none of it seemed to matter anymore.

In fact, I’ll admit to you here and now, I was extremely bitter. Bitter on so many different levels in so many different areas of my life. It was eating me alive. I recently heard someone call bitterness a self-imposed prison cell. I was not only locked behind bars in my self-imposed prison, I had set up housekeeping there. I had furnished my cell with resentment, regret, jealousy, failure, and pure, high-octane bitterness.

I was also beginning to wonder where God was in all of this. Yes, I’d seen His hand in our move to Tennessee and the job He’d provided for Ken. But my attempts at prayer seemed to bounce off the ceiling. And please—don’t quote me those lines from Footprints in the Sand or the lyrics of songs of faith. I’ve sung them all, I’ve memorized the verses, and I know the facts. I just couldn’t understand why God wasn’t there for me when in my heart I knew He was supposed to be.

I was crying to the LORD with my voiceAnd He answered me from His holy mountain

—PSALM 3:4, NASB

Before I continue, I have to offer another word of caution. In no way, shape, or form do I suggest that what I’m about to tell you is good theology. Not even close. But it’s so pivotal to my journey, there’s no way to exclude it if I’m to be transparent with my testimony. So here goes. On March 29, 2003, I wrote the following on the first page of a new journal:

Lord,

Today I ask you with all my heart to help me make a new start in my prayer life. I ask Your forgiveness for my negligence in my walk with You. With this new day and this fresh page, please help me make You and make prayer a priority once again. Father, I need You. And I need Your help. I’m committing to meet You here every day. Please strengthen me, especially in my discipline, and fill me with the desire to draw close to You. Forgive my apathy, and draw me back to You. As honestly as I know how, I open my heart to you and ask You to come in once again. Renew my passion for You, Lord. Help me dust off my Bible and reconnect.

I know what you’re thinking. Whoa, what a committed Christian. How bold. How spiritual. You can almost hear the angels singing in heaven! What a beautiful, heartfelt prayer. Isn’t it, though? There’s just one thing wrong with it. What I actually felt, deep in the dark recesses of my heart, what I didn’t dare put down on paper, is the following.

God, I’m tired of playing this game, this so-called “walk” with You. I’m so sick of my life and my failed attempts to be genuine and real, that I’m ready to throw down the gauntlet. I’ll keep my promise to meet with You every single day for a week. If, at the end of the week, I can see a real difference in my life, then I’ll commit to another week. Then another after that. For as long as it takes. But if spending time with You for the next seven days in a row does NOT improve my life or affect any kind of change in my heart and my walk with You, then I’m over it. I’m done.

Ouch. You have no idea how painful it is to see those words in print. But there they are. Whenever I think back about it, I see this image of me shaking my freckled little fist at God. Can you imagine? Even now, it sends a shiver down my spine—the audacity to say such a thing to Almighty God. It’s a wonder I wasn’t struck by lightning.

And then I visualize something else. Times in my life as a mother when one of my kids would be so angry with me, they’d yell, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” or “I can’t wait to leave this house and never come back.” Words spoken in white-hot anger that always cooled—eventually. In my heart I knew my child didn’t really mean those words. I’d said them to my own mother a few times. Still, to hear them from the mouth of my own child—a child I’d brought into this world and nurtured and cherished and loved—to hear such words always left a wound in my heart. How much deeper the pain we inflict on our loving Father when our words pierce His heart and our actions betray Him.

Of course, I’d always been taught that God grants us His mercy and His love even when we don’t deserve it. And for the record, none of us do. Just to think He would respond as He did to my pathetic, bratty outburst? Unthinkable. But my heavenly Father showed up in ways I couldn’t have imagined; in ways that could only be explained as coming from the One who loved me unconditionally. He knew my dreams and the desires of my heart (after all, He put them there), so He knew precisely where and how to get my undivided attention.

God Revealed Himself to Me

At the time, I’d been working on a novel for several months, but I’d hit a brick wall. A big one. Not long after that first week’s challenge to God, I began to notice those bricks falling away. In fact, the story was pouring itself into my head so fast I could barely keep up as I pounded my keyboard. What a rush! I’d also been waiting anxiously to hear from several publishers and agents I’d submitted other projects to. Patience is not one of my virtues, as you’ve probably guessed by now. I had almost given up hope of ever hearing from any of them. Then, a couple of weeks later, I got a contract from an agent. I couldn’t believe it. But even in my still-fragile state of mind and renewed walk with God, I knew exactly Who to thank. Finally. Finally! I was going to see my dream come true. It was just the break I needed at the precise moment I needed it. Who but God could have pulled that together?

One day in the midst of that first week, I was browsing the book section of a local store. I’m a serious coffee-lover, so when I spotted the picture of a coffee cup and saucer on a book entitled Fresh-Brewed Life: A Stirring Invitation to Wake Up Your Soul 1 I grabbed a copy. I didn’t know it at the time, but God used that alluring book cover to place a life-changing book in my hands. I devoured that book. Or, should I say, I drank in that book? I couldn’t put it down. I loved it so much, I raced back to the store to buy more copies, but they’d sold out. I went online, ordering copies to send some of my closest friends and family.

What was so special about Fresh-Brewed Life (hereafter referred to as FBL)? The author, Nicole Johnson, is a gifted communicator both in print and in front of live audiences. I loved her self-deprecating sense of humor and her ability to dig deep to mine precious pearls of wisdom that remind us of God’s profound love for each one of us. But apart from all that, it became obvious that God led me to that book, in that particular week, to speak to me in a specific way. Let me show you an example. During that first week, I wrote this entry in my prayer journal.

I read an amazing chapter today in FBL about the voices we hear in our heads from the enemy; how they fill us with negativity and hopelessness and hold us back from reaching for our dreams. God reminded me to banish those voices and tune in to HIS voice. Moments later, while reading in the Psalms, these verses jumped off the page at me: “Make me to hear joy and gladness . . .  Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation” (Psalm 51:8,12, KJV). These were the words of God, the voice I’ve longed to hear!

The next day’s entry.

“What you are passionate about was created in you to make a splash in this life that no one else can make. Make it. Make it now.”2 Never once have I ever realized the truth of that statement. Me? Making a splash no one else can make? Thank You, God! How I needed to hear that today!

And the next.

Today, Nicole hit a nerve. She talked about dealing with disappointment through what she called “spectator living”—when, rather than follow our dreams and longings, we don’t even try, so we won’t be disappointed . . .  “We never pause long enough to listen to our dreams, so we don’t have to be responsible for them . . .  If we don’t wish or dream, we aren’t disappointed. If we aren’t disappointed, we can tolerate our lives.”3  I have to ask myself how long I’ve been living like this? Lord, I feel like I’m at a crossroads in my life. Like there’s a huge “NOW WHAT?” sign standing in front of me. Will I live the second half of my life just drifting along, full of regrets and disappointments? The thought of that nauseates me.

Those thoughts sent me on a quest to discover my dreams and goals, sort of a Bucket List of things to do before I die. Realistic dreams and goals, but also those that might stretch me out of my comfort zone. By the start of week 6, here’s what I wrote in my journal.

I’m noticing a thrill unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Lord, since I’ve started this challenge to meet You faithfully every day, I find I have more ideas and things I want to do than I’ll ever be able to do in my lifetime. And it feels WONDERFUL! Thank You, Lord. But what do I do with all of these ideas? Where do I go from here? I’m practically giddy with all these things bouncing around in my head!

Giddy? Moi? How did I go from near despair—threatening to walk away from my faith in God forever—to giddy? I realized there could be only one explanation: God. He made good on His promise to love me, warts and all, and He showed up to meet me where I was—bitter and exhausted and spiritually out of gas. I offered Him seven days, He offered me unconditional love for all eternity. And for the first time in my life, I realized it was okay to place value on all that He made me to be.

I realized I was worthy of His love because He made me in His own image! Sure, I’d known these things in my head, but I’d never believed them with my heart. Accepting this unconditional love in my heart made a huge difference in my life.

The freedom I discovered on this journey has manifested itself over and over and over again. I could pull hundreds of excerpts from my prayer journals and fill every page of this book, giving so many examples of the ways God has touched my heart, restoring me to my salvation.

But enough about me. Now it’s your turn.

Let’s roll up our sleeves and find out how to get you started on your prayer journey. Even before you turn this page, be assured I’m praying for you to catch the thrill and joy of meeting God one-on-one, every day. I pray it becomes as necessary to your daily life as breathing. I pray it becomes such a significant part of your life that you can’t imagine how you ever lived without it.

Ready? Let’s do it!

The person who really wants to do something finds a way; the other person finds an excuse.

—AUTHOR UNKNOWN

How about we have a little fun? Let’s take off the kid gloves, stop beating around the bush, lay all our cards on the table, get right to the point, leave no stone unturned, start firing on all cylinders, and tackle the whole enchilada. Every writer worth his salt (oops, there goes another one) knows that clichés are considered a lazy and tacky form of writing. The Cliché Police may chase us down, but isn’t it cathartic to fling a few of these forbidden fruits around? In other words, in the spirit of unfettered laziness, let’s take a whimsical look at some of the silly reasons we don’t pray.

Almost every book I’ve read on the subject of prayer has a chapter on excuses. Most of them deal with deeply spiritual matters of the heart. But since you and I are just now getting acquainted, I thought we might take a different approach and spice it up with a hint of humor. An ice-breaker, if you will. How better to cut to the chase? Sorry. That one slipped.

The Top 10 Excuses Why Christians Don’t Pray

10. I have bad knees. I can’t kneel to pray. It doesn’t count if I’m not kneeling. Talk about your lame excuse.

9.  My pastor prays at church services. That’s enough for me. Piggy-back prayer coverage. Who knew?

8.  God’s got His hands full with tsunamis and people living in poverty and starvation and wars and hospital wards and crime and—well, face it. He doesn’t have time for my piddlysquat prayers. Be not downhearted, my friend. There are no “piddlysquat” prayers to God. “He’s got the whole world in His hands”—feel free to sing along—“He’s got the whole world . . .  ”

7.  It’s none of your business. It’s personal. It’s just between God and me. Sounds like someone woke up with a case of the grumpies. Here, have some coffee. We’ll chat later. After your second cup, okay?

6.  If God knows me so well, I shouldn’t have to verbalize my prayers for Him. He’s either omniscient or He’s not. Come on now, don’t be shy. Tell us what you really think.

5.  Prayer is a waste of time. It doesn’t change a thing. I know—I prayed for a pony when I was a kid and never got one. Then I prayed for world peace. Fat chance of that ever happening. I’m not psychic, but I’m guessing you’d say that glass of water you’re holding is half empty. Am I right?

4.  I can never stay focused. My mind wanders. I figure that’s an insult to God, so I’m better off if I don’t pray at all. Are you going to eat that chocolate donut or can I have it? I’m sorry, what were you saying?

3.  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how. It’s just too awkward. Well, so was learning how to go potty when you were two, but you kept after it and chances are, you’re no longer in diapers. Please tell me you’re not still in diapers?

2.  I’m lazy. There. I said it. Satisfied? Yes! And doesn’t it feel good to come clean? Oh, that the rest of us should be so honest.

And the #1 excuse Christians give for not praying?

1.  I Don’t Have Time! I’m Busy! Yeah, I heard that about you. Is it true the world will indeed stop spinning on its axis if you don’t keep all your appointments today? Just curious.

I have plenty to say about this #1 jewel, but I’ll save it for Chapter 5. In the meantime, let’s address some of the previous countdown excuses.

To Kneel or Not to Kneel, That Is the Question

Hopefully, you’re not serious about this one because I tossed it in just for fun. I’m unaware of any scripture requiring us to get down on our knees to pray. I grew up in a Southern Baptist church, and the only time we knelt for prayer was in response to an altar call at the end of the service or following a particularly fiery sermon by a visiting evangelist. Our pews weren’t equipped with the pull-down kneeling bench found in most Catholic and Episcopalian churches.

But that doesn’t mean I never knelt to pray. To be honest, I never even gave it much thought until the last few years. I realized there were certain occasions when Christ knelt to pray, and I began asking God if He wanted me on my knees. No, I never heard an audible voice. But sometimes, when I’d notice my mind drifting in the midst of my prayer time, I sensed an internal nudge in my spirit urging me to get down on my knees. It immediately helped me to focus on God and obliterate the distractions. I try to stay tuned in for those holy nudges so I don’t miss the blessing.

Piggy-back Prayers

You don’t have to be a Mother Teresa to know this one won’t cut it. Unfortunately, even though most of us would never admit it, we convince ourselves that a few minutes warming the pew now and then, listening to someone else pray is somehow sufficient. As if by showing up and tipping our spiritual hat to God, we’re covered.

News flash: God wants you. He wants a relationship with you. That’s why He made you. And I have to be honest with you here. If you don’t have much interest in spending time with God, I have to wonder about your salvation. No, I’m not Judge Judy. But if you’re just going through the motions, playing the part but never owning your relationship with God, chances are you need to go back to square one and be sure beyond a shadow of doubt that you truly gave your heart to God. So you can know that you know that you know that Jesus is Lord of your life. If you didn’t previously make a pit stop there, flip over to the back of the book to the section I mentioned earlier about becoming a Christian. Go on. Take your time. I’ll wait for you.

God’s Got Bigger Problems than Me

Sure He does. But remember those “O” words we use in reference to God? I’m referring to omniscient (having total knowledge of all things) and omnipresent (being present everywhere at the same time). These are two attributes of God that are tough for us to comprehend. But as believers, we accept that God is certainly capable of knowing everything and being everywhere simultaneously. To think otherwise would be to question who He says He is. And that’s never a smart choice, Mr. Doubting Thomas.

One of my favorite books is Just Give Me Jesus by Anne Graham Lotz, daughter of beloved evangelist Billy Graham. I heard Anne speak several years ago at a conference in Florida and was literally blown away. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone speak with such depth of understanding about our walk as Christians. I remember thinking how refreshing it was to hear her message because she was so incredibly genuine. There wasn’t an ounce of insincerity in her. There wasn’t a single moment when she came across as a celebrity or some much-sought-after speaker on the Christian circuit. When she spoke, we felt the presence of the Lord in that room. Not long after that event, I picked up a copy of her book Just Give Me Jesus. I’ve read it over and over as part of my prayer time for years. Let me share what she says about God’s interest in us.

The greatness of His power to create and design and form and mold and make and build and arrange defies the limits of our imagination. And since He created everything, there is nothing beyond His power to fix or mend or heal or restore. . . . Having brought everything into existence that exists, He has never become bored with or distracted from or unconcerned about His creation. The Living Logos personally hovers over all He has created, giving it His full attention.1

In other words, nothing is too small for God. There is nothing in your life or mine that He regards as “piddlysquat.” Are we clear on that now?

It’s Personal

Now I have to agree with this one. Prayer is designed to be personal because it is the form of communication between you and your Father in heaven. In Matthew 6, Christ gave us a model for prayer. We know it as the Lord’s Prayer. But skip back a few verses and listen to what He says.

But when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. When you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.  —Matthew 6:5-6

God isn’t fooled for a millisecond by those who pray loud and long and with great braggadocios for the sake of being heard. You’ve heard those kinds of prayers and so have I. It’s like listening to a staged performance worthy of an Oscar nomination rather than the heartfelt prayer of a humble believer. Dear Gaaaaaaahhhhhhddddd. . . .  Oh, please. Give it a rest. We are not impressed. Or the ones who seem to turn on tears at will. I have nothing against those who are sincerely passionate or emotional about something they’re sharing. But to those whose tears run like a faucet on some arbitrary timer, cued to start the waterworks at a given point in every sermon? Sorry. Not buying it.

Preachers come in all shapes and sizes and flavors. Some are dry as the Sahara, some are funny, some are excitable, some are readers. But the one thing I do not want to see behind the pulpit is an actor. Leave the theatrics at home, Pastor. Just be real.

Thankfully, God is far more interested in what’s in your heart. That’s why He beckons us to pray in private. He’s telling us to get rid of all the fluff, the flowery language, and anything else that might hinder us from pouring out our hearts before Him—and from listening to what He tells us in return.

And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.  —Matthew 6:7-8

Speaking of babbling, you’ve heard enough of mine for now. How about we continue our discussion of excuses in the next chapter?

He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.

—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Oy vey! What a list we have going! Now, where were we?

God is omniscient. He knows what I’m going to pray before I even think it, much less say it.

True. You’re spot on. But this reminds me of that old joke about the wife who complained to her husband on their fiftieth anniversary, “Why don’t you ever tell me you love me?” Her husband answered, “I told you the day I married you. Nothing’s changed. If it does, I’ll let you know.” Paging Dr. Phil. We’ve found your next guest for your show.

Do you know why God created humans in the first place? I mean, stop and think about it for a moment. He’s God. He can have or create anything in the heavens He wants. I’m sure the holy refrigerator is packed solid with cartons of Blue Bell ice cream—times a million. All those amazing flavor combinations minus the calories and fat grams, of course. After all, we are talking about heaven here, amen? Then again, heaven is so far beyond our comprehension that to yearn for earthly things like ice cream is kind of silly. Even Blue Bell’s Banana Pudding ice cream or Blackberry Cobbler ice cream probably tastes bland in comparison to the phenomenal foods that await us in heaven. There will be food in heaven, right? Please tell me there will be food. Anyone?

Here’s the point. God needs only to think it, and anything He needs and wants is at His disposal. So He certainly didn’t need us, which can only mean one thing: He must have wanted us. Why? I did a quick study of the scriptures on that exact question. Oddly enough—wannabe Bible scholar that I am—I didn’t find an exact answer to that question. But Genesis 2:7 tells us: “And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living being.” Unlike the rest of His creation, God gave humans a living soul. That much we know.

Then, in Genesis 2:18, we read: “The LORD God said, ‘It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.’” Whoa, did you catch that? Right there, we can sneak a glimpse into God’s heart. He’s concerned that Adam would be too lonely without someone to relate to. He made Adam, after all. He knew that there was a vacuum in Adam’s heart without a companion, someone to do life with. Could it be this is our clue revealing God’s omniscient awareness of our need for relationship?

You know the rest of the story. Knowing Adam would be freaked if God just reached down and took a rib from his side (ouch?), the Creator introduced the first recorded use of anesthesia and BAM! He knocked Adam out, sending him into a deep sleep.

Verse 22 says, “Then the LORD God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man.” I don’t know about you, but I’m guessing Adam had the shock of his lifetime when he woke up and took a look at Eve. “Whoa! Who are you, and what did you do with my rib?” Actually, I’m guessing it was probably more like, “Whoa, baby! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Can’t you just see the two of them checking each other out? (Am I the only one blushing here?) Somehow I think Adam was ridiculously happy to see Eve, and vice versa, don’t you? And they didn’t even know what was in store for them. They just knew it was nice not to be alone.

The point is, God understands our desire for companionship. How so? It’s not that big a leap to realize He understands that desire because He above all has that same desire! If you read ahead in Genesis 3:8, it says, “Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the LORD God as He was walking in the garden in the cool of the day.” God took a walk in the garden, knowing Adam and Eve were there. He wanted to be with them! Unfortunately, they’d just bitten off more than they could chew (so to speak) and committed the sin that would affect all of humankind throughout the rest of history (Genesis 2:16-17). So what did they do? They ran off and hid. Like God couldn’t find them? Adam. Eve. What were you thinking?

It was that choice that got them in trouble. Yes, God could have created robotrons, automatically wired to be perfect, make no mistakes, and readily equipped to be in a relationship with Him. But that would never do. God wanted us to want that relationship of our own free will. So He gave us a choice: either to follow Him and have a personal relationship with Him, or to reject Him.

Scottish-born minister and teacher Oswald Chambers put it this way:

The most important aspect of Christianity is not the work we do, but the relationship we maintain and the surrounding influence and qualities produced by that relationship.1

How’s that for a big picture? Merely by making that faith choice to follow Him, each one of us have the astounding opportunity to become a vessel of His love to the world around us. Are you getting this? Do you realize the magnitude of your relationship with God? Probably not. Because if we truly got it at the very core of our being, we’d have no problem understanding the depth of the relationship God offers to us and we would run with it. My question to you is this: What’s keeping you from running with it? Hmm?

So you prayed for a pony and didn’t get one, proving once and for all that prayer is a waste of time.

Maybe yours wasn’t a prayer for a pony; but more than likely, at some point in your life you’ve prayed for something you didn’t get. My pastor, Pete Wilson, gave a message on prayer, specifically citing this idea many of us have that prayer is a kind of transaction. Beside him on the platform, an object the size of a refrigerator stood cloaked beneath a black cover. He said, “Most of us have reduced prayer down to a transaction. A way to manipulate what we want. A vending machine.”2 At that point, he yanked off the cover revealing a large vending machine, loaded with all kinds of snacks. He inserted some coins and pushed the button for peanut M&Ms (smart man, my pastor). Nothing happened. He hit the machine a couple of times, tried to rock it. Nothing.

He continued. “Most of the time when we go to God, it’s because we want something. If we get what we want, we turn and walk off, satisfied. If we don’t get what we want, we get frustrated; we kick the machine and blame God for not answering our request.”3

Pete warned that this “transaction” view of prayer will always disappoint us because at the root of it, we think it’s all about us.4 But prayer is so much more than giving God a list of our wants and needs or, in some cases, our demands. Prayer is communication. It’s talking and listening.

Let’s look at another Oswald Chambers quote.

“Your Father knows the things you have need of before you ask Him” (Matthew 6:8). Then why should we ask? The point of prayer is not to get answers from God, but to have perfect and complete oneness with Him. If we pray only because we want answers, we will become irritated and angry with God. We receive an answer every time we pray, but it does not always come in the way we expect, and our spiritual irritation shows our refusal to identify ourselves truly with our Lord in prayer. We are not here to prove that God answers prayer, but to be living trophies of God’s grace.5

“To have perfect and complete oneness with Him.” I love that. Can you even imagine what our lives would be like if we aspired to that kind of oneness with God? How often have we settled for mediocrity because we’ve never really understood this basic truth that prayer is communication? How many times have we shunned God because our M&Ms didn’t drop down after we inserted our coins?

Let’s dig even deeper. If you were handed a printed transcript of all your prayers to God over the last week or month or even a year, what would it look like? Chances are it would be a repetitive list of give me this, give me that, gimme-gimme-gimme. When I think about the times I’ve been stuck in these “gimme” prayers, I can actually imagine the expression on Jesus’ face as I blab on and on about gimme-this and gimme-that. I can see Him rolling his eyes, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn as He shakes His head. Finally He drops His head back and closes His eyes.

I’m sure He has way more patience than that. But by now you know I’m a visual person. It helps me to picture Him that way when I get carried away with myself. And face it. When we spend our whole prayer time uttering nothing more than a long laundry list of gimmes, we sound like a bunch of spoiled brats, don’t we? Guess what? We are. But we’re hardly alone. Most of us probably have similar if not identical transcripts because we’ve never moved beyond our childish motives.

The fact is, God always answers our prayers. He just doesn’t necessarily answer them the way we expect them. My husband always speaks of God’s perspective toward our lives using the illustration of a parade. If we’re riding along the parade route, we can see what’s just ahead of us and what’s just behind us. That’s it. But the TV reporter way up in the helicopter sees the route from start to finish. And that’s how God sees our life’s journey. He’s got the view from the Holy Blimp. He can see what lies in the path directly ahead of us and waaaaaay beyond. So when we pray, He answers each prayer with our best long-term interest in mind. He may say no, He might say yes, or He may tell us to hold our horses and wait. Our challenge is to accept his response and trust Him— completely.

Oh, and one more thing. About that prayer for world peace? God gave us a roadmap for that long, long ago. It’s called the Ten Commandments. Check out Exodus, chapter 20. That about covers it.

I can never stay focused. My mind wanders. I figure that’s an insult to God, so I’m better off if I don’t pray at all.

Ah, a case of PADD. Prayer Attention Deficit Disorder. Happens to all of us, my friend. But rather than give up, get help. Get organized! I promise if you’ll make the effort to rein in that mind of yours, even for just a few minutes each day, you’ll start to see a difference. In Chapter 7 I’ll give you some specific tools that will help tremendously. But for now, let me share my favorite verse in the Bible. It’s my life’s verse. Are you ready for this? “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you” ( James 4:8, NKJV).

Stop right there. Read it again. Can you hear God calling out to you in those eleven words? Can you even comprehend the promise He’s offering you? Unlike the empty promises and meaningless words of today’s culture, God doesn’t mince words or spill out fluff. He is good to His word. And He’s reaching out to you. He’s promising to respond personally if you’ll only draw near to Him.

I’ve loved that verse for over twenty years, and it still gives me goose bumps whenever I think about it. Here’s another verse along the same lines: “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart” (Jeremiah 29:13).

Take Him at His word. Don’t give up. Don’t miss the blessing!

I’m lazy. There. I said it. Satisfied?

Pssst. Wanna know a secret? If you strip away all the excuses we dish up to God day after day, you’ll find they all come down to this: laziness. It may show up in different disguises, especially when we’re trying so hard to hide it. Hiding from God? See previous Adam and Eve reference above. Enough said?

We are a lazy people when it comes to spending time with God. Wouldn’t you agree? If so, what does that say about you and me? But admitting it and doing something about it are two different things. In the following pages, I’m going to challenge you to arm yourself with all the ammo you need to blast those lazy germs to smithereens. Which I think is somewhere near South Dakota. Come on, Rambo and Ramboettes, let’s go for it!

I don’t have time to pray I’m too busy!

It’s only fitting that our #1 excuse for not praying should have a chapter all to itself. And while I still contend that laziness is at the root of this excuse as well, I also believe our lifestyles morph this particular strain of laziness into a generally accepted excuse in today’s culture. Somehow we’ve equated “busyness” with accomplishment and success. I’ve had many friends over the years who routinely call and list all they’ve done by eight in the morning. I’m sure I’m supposed to be impressed, but usually I just roll over and go back to sleep. Makes me yawn just thinking about it.

What is behind this frantic pace of our everyday lives? It seems to be the inescapable way of life in twenty-first century America. Unfortunately, I think Christians are among the worst offenders. In addition to being a husband or wife, parent, student, employee or employer, friend, volunteer, relative, neighbor, and all those other hats we keep piled on our heads, there’s all that busyness of church. Services, classes, choir practices, team/committee meetings, church suppers, Sunday school lessons, potlucks, Bible studies—hold on a sec, I’ve got to catch my breath here—mission weeks, revivals, vacation Bible schools, the annual church picnic, Christmas cantatas, Easter pageants, mission trips abroad, Sunday school socials, food drives, clothing drives, Angel Trees . . .  Have I missed anything?

In Blue Like Jazz author Donald Miller addresses this subject from a startling perspective.

I believe the greatest trick of the devil is not to get us into some sort of evil but rather have us wasting time. This is why the devil tries so hard to get Christians to be religious. If he can sink a man’s mind into habit, he will prevent his heart from engaging God.1

Bingo! How better to sell us a counterfeit faith than to load up our calendars with a thousand church-focused obligations? A sly one, that devil. And churches all over the world fall for it. You’ve gotta love churches that stress the tremendous importance of the family, but expect members to be at the church five out of seven nights a week. What’s wrong with that equation? And where do we get off thinking we’re some kind of saint just because we never miss?

We seem to be a nation and a people who rarely slow down. It’s as if we don’t know how—unless the stress catches up with us, causing any number of maladies like ulcers, heart attacks, hernias, emotional meltdowns (been there, done that), or sheer exhaustion. Who has time for spiritual matters like prayer? In an ideal world, we’d gladly spend half an hour—oh, let’s dream big—maybe even an entire hour— reading our Bibles and praying every single day of our lives. Really? A whole hour? Shoot, if that’s the case, let’s try to see if we can find those sixty minutes that seem to be MIA and UFMP (Missing in Action and Unavailable for Meaningful Prayer).

Granted, much of your daily routine depends on your age and marital status. As a single, your time at home is primarily your own. Now don’t get your knickers in a knot—I know there are exceptions. Perhaps you’re a single parent with children in the home. Maybe you’re caring for an aging parent, spending all your free time with them. Those situations drastically change the home dynamic. Your time is rarely your own! And if you’re married, particularly if children are in the picture, your time must be allocated between your spouse and your children and all the other demands of your life.

No matter what your home life may look like—Norman Rockwell or otherwise—let me ask you a few questions. This morning when you got up, did you spend time reading your favorite blogs? Did you answer e-mails while your coffee was brewing? Did you read the paper while eating your Cocoa Puffs? If you’re a guy, did you watch SportsCenter on TV while you shaved and got dressed? If you’re a woman, did you think through your to do list while you showered this morning, made a pot of coffee before blow-drying your hair, put on your makeup, dressed for work, woke up the kids for school, let the dog out, made breakfast for the family, packed lunches for the kids, and made sure everyone got out the door in time? (Is it just me, or do the guys have the shorter list here? That is so not fair.)

Whoa. I’m worn out just thinking about your mornings. I need a nap.

A word of warning is in order. Unless you’re a member of the clergy, I wouldn’t recommend having your prayer time once you get to work. Your employer doesn’t pay you to spend time with the Lord on the clock. I knew of a woman back in Oklahoma who made quite a show of reading her Bible and praying in the break room after clocking in at work each morning. I’m sure she meant well, but what a terrible witness to her co-workers. Needless to say, her boss eventually showed her the door, and rightly so.

So the morning is gone, you barely have time to grab a bite for lunch, then you’re back at work for the afternoon. When you finally head home, you’re mentally and/or physically exhausted so you listen to talk radio or a few of your favorite CDs on your homeward commute.

It’s now seven in the evening. Regardless if you’re single, married, with or without children, you probably have a routine most weeknights. Before you try to assure me you spend your evenings constructively, I should warn you I’ve done some research. The latest official TV rating stats tell us the average American television viewer is logging more than 153 hours of TV each month. That breaks down to somewhere in the vicinity of five hours per day. And that doesn’t even count the additional amount of viewership via the Internet and mobile phones. This tells me there’s a pretty good chance you’re parked on the couch for hours upon hours of television viewing on a fairly regular basis.

“Yes,” you say, “but I’m watching news programming. It’s important to know what’s happening in the world around us.” Yes, my dear news wonk, it is indeed important. Or perhaps you say, “I watch educational stations like the Discovery Channel. Ever watch that show on meerkats? They’re fascinating. Practically human!” No kidding. I think I spotted one of my inlaws in last week’s episode . . .  Personally, the Food Network is my TV drug of choice. Not good for someone who’s lived most of her life on a perpetual diet; know what I mean?

But let’s face it—whether it’s news or educational programming or a string of reality shows or a marathon of sporting events—you’re most likely racking up some hefty TV time. Which might explain some of those extra pounds you’re totin’ around these days. Not that I’m pointing fingers or anything.

By now, it’s time for bed. Maybe, upon realizing you haven’t had a single blip on your day’s radar concerning the Lord, you utter a couple of quick ones as your head hits the pillow. “Lord, forgive me for neglecting You today. Thank You for . . . for . . .” And that about does it. Soon, the snoring commences as you drift off into a blissful sleep, dreaming of meerkats auditioning for American Idol.

If I came anywhere close to describing your average day, then chances are you need help. Carving out time to pray doesn’t come easy. If you’re serious about making your one-on-one time with God a priority, you’ve got to be willing to tackle that ugly D word: discipline. When I think of physical exercise, I can safely say I hate—nay, loathe—the discipline it requires. (Which might explain some of the aforementioned excess pounds I’m carrying around.) But discipline is such a necessary part of life. Without it, we waste massive amounts of our time and energy. Likewise, discipline is an integral part of being committed to some form of daily, routine encounter with God.

One of the best books I’ve read in years is Second Calling: Finding Passion and Purpose for the Rest of Your Life. Author Dale Hanson Bourke addresses this matter of our hectic lifestyles: “If I turn up the music of busyness, I will miss the whispers of God’s call.”2 Isn’t that profound? Over the course of your life, how many of God’s whispers have you missed? Does the thought of it break your heart?

Ever hear of the Wesleys? This remarkable eighteenth-century English family played a vital role in the early Christian movement here in America. John Wesley was an Anglican theologian who helped launch the Methodist denomination. His brother Charles, also a leader of that movement, is remembered for penning more than 6,000 hymns, many of the most famous hymns we know today. John and Charles were just two of the nineteen children born to Samuel and Susannah Wesley, though nine of their brothers and sisters died as infants, and another was accidentally smothered by a maid. Samuel left Susannah for more than a year after they had an argument over a quite trivial difference of opinion. It must have been one whopper of a fight because he left her alone to care for their ten remaining children with no means of support. But through the many hardships Susannah experienced, she continually grew stronger and more determined to educate her children and raise them to honor God.3

Why am I telling you about Susannah Wesley? Because it would have been so easy for her to throw up her hands and cry why me? Instead, this intelligent and strong-willed woman instilled discipline and order in her home. And she did that by maintaining a relentless practice of daily prayer with the Lord. The story is told of many occasions when, unable to find a quiet room for her prayer time, she would flip her apron over her head and pray. Not just for a few minutes, but for two hours. She had arranged a system so that the older children would take care of the younger ones during this time. In doing so, they learned first-hand by their mother’s example, the importance of a personal prayer life.4

It’s all about priorities, isn’t it? Susannah Wesley had hers in order, that’s for sure. Now bear in mind all of the obstacles in her life, then listen to her perspective on the importance of setting aside time to pray each day.

I will tell you what rule I observed when I was young . . . never to spend more time in mere recreation in one day than I spent in private religious devotions.5

Ol’ Susannah doesn’t beat around the bush, does she? And to think, she didn’t even have the temptation to watch a weekend marathon of Law and Order or play eighteen holes at Augusta. I wonder what kind of mere recreation was available to her back then. Needlepoint? Playing the lute?

It’s definitely a matter of priorities, but I’d even go a step further and suggest it’s a matter of devotion and adoration. Let’s put it in twenty-first century terms. Imagine this:

You have been summoned by the president of the United States. (If you don’t like the current occupant, make it the last one you did like.) He has asked you to join him for breakfast at the White House. His personal secretary called to extend the invitation to you and give you the details of where to go and when to be there. The morning arrives. Your alarm clock buzzes incessantly. As your mind awakens, you think over your options. Do you—

(A)  Throw the alarm clock across the room. As you begin to drift back to sleep, you vaguely recall that today is the day you go to the White House. But you decide it’s not that big a deal, so you blow off the president, snuggle back under the covers and go back to sleep. Or do you—

(B)  Hit the snooze button eight more times then call his secretary and tell her you’re just too tired and you’ll have to take a rain check. She says the next available date is two years from next week, which suits you fine. Or do you—

(C)  Fly out of bed, grab a shower and get dressed, catch up on your correspondence, play a couple rounds of solitaire on your computer, pay some bills, take a long call from a friend while you put dinner in the crockpot—then look at the clock and realize it’s already half an hour past the time you were supposed to be at the White House. You shrug it off and decide you’ll get to it another time. Or do you—

(D)  Set your alarm clock the night before to wake you earlier than usual. When it goes off, you jump out of bed, shower and dress, then leave the house with plenty of time to spare as you drive to the White House. Graciously and with much anticipation and excitement, you meet the most important person in the world over coffee and croissants. As you and the president began to chat, you think—I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!

Let me guess. You picked D, didn’t you? I know. Maybe I’m psychic after all. I’m also impressed because you certainly know how to respond when summoned by someone important!

Now let’s put that scenario in terms of your spiritual life. Your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has extended a personal invitation for you to join him for a chat—not just today, but every day of your life. So what’s it going to be? Will you willingly ignore His invitation, throwing your alarm clock across the room, opting for more sleep? Will your good intentions get lost in a flurry of other important tasks? Or will you plan ahead, making sure you don’t miss the opportunity of a lifetime—make that eternity—and give your appointed time with your Heavenly Father the priority it deserves?

My goal on these pages is to help you scratch out any response except that last one above. To help you find the joy of meeting God every single day, one-on-one, heart-to-heart, until you reach a point where you can’t even imagine starting your day without Him.

How will you make that happen? You already know. That dirty word we discussed a page or so back: discipline. Without it, you’ll never succeed at much of anything, let alone the habit of spending time with your God.

By now you’re saying, “Okay, okay! Prayer requires discipline. I get it! But tell me how do I learn that kind of discipline? Tell me!”

I will. I promise. But first, there’s one more thing I need to ask you.

But if from there you seek the LORD your God, you will find Him if you look for him with all your heart and with all your soul.

–DEUTERONOMY 4:29

I want you to be completely honest. No one is looking over your shoulder or breathing down your neck. This is just between you and God, okay? Here’s my question.

On a scale of one to ten, how does your “want-to” rank in terms of desiring time to spend with the Lord? How badly do you really want it? If (1) is “I could care less,” and (10) is “I cannot imagine starting my day without first spending quality time with God,” how do you measure up?

Remember, be as honest as you can. Your word is safe with me. I promise. And I can also guarantee you one thing with absolute certainty: God will do major heart surgery on you if you’ll let Him.

So let’s determine just how serious you are about your prayer life. Do you sincerely desire a personal, intimate relationship with your Lord? Or is it just lip service and wishful thinking on your part? As believers, we know we’re supposed to pray. But knowing and doing aren’t even in same ballpark for most of us. The problem is, if we don’t even have the desire to pray, what does that say about us? Imagine being head-over-heels in love with someone—but having no desire whatsoever to spend time with that person. Doesn’t sound like a very healthy relationship to me. Exactly what kind of love is that? So when we say we love God, yet make no time for Him in our lives, well—what kind of love is that?

So I’ll ask you again. How badly do you want it?

Let’s take it one step further. How important is the Lord in the overall scope of your life? What kind of place do you give Him in your daily routine? Remember those “God is my copilot” bumper stickers? Holy screwed-up theology, Batman! That little jewel may be the single most blatantly misconceived product ever to roll out of Christian marketing. When you give your life to God, be assured the last role He wants to play is your copilot. Surrendering to Christ means stepping aside and giving Him the pilot’s seat—not the other way around.

Need proof? God is really serious about this. Take another look at the Ten Commandments in Exodus 20. In that coveted #1 spot, He makes it perfectly clear: “You shall have no other gods before Me.” Meaning, you’re not the boss of Him. Meaning, you’re not the hotshot pilot you think you are, so get your butt over there in the copilot seat and let Him do the flying. Any questions?

Years ago, our youth group performed a dramatic skit I’ll never forget. With permission from scriptwriter John Alexander at DramaShare.org, I’d like to share a summary of “The Visitor” with you.

The scene starts with a teenager (we’ll call her Briana) sitting in her bedroom. There’s a knock at the door. Briana goes to the door, answers it, and finds Jesus (unseen) standing there. She gives Him a big hug, welcomes Him into her room, and invites Him to take a seat on a chair after she clears away all the clutter. She begins a long litany of explanations why she hasn’t been able to spend much time with Him lately—homework, Christmas shopping, her busy, busy schedule—and assures Him she’s cleared the evening for just the two of them.

Briana tells Jesus all about the things happening in her life. She’s been chosen to be captain of the cheerleading squad for next year, and she acknowledges how happy He must surely be since she’ll be in such a high profile position—for His honor, of course. She also informs Him she’s decided to pursue a career as an airline pilot. That means, unfortunately, that she won’t be keeping her promise to serve Him overseas, but that was probably just an unrealistic childish commitment on her part, one He probably knew she’d never keep. She’s sure He only wants what’s best for her, and she loves that about Him.

Then the phone rings, and Briana is invited to a party that’s going on at a friend’s house. She hesitates at first, knowing she promised to spend the evening getting caught up with Jesus. But when she finds out a certain guy is there asking for her, she quickly changes her mind. She hangs up and turns to Jesus . . .

“Listen, something has come up; we are going to have to do this later. . . . Some of my friends, they really want me to be with them. And, I thought maybe it would be best, one of Yours being there where many don’t even know Your Name.” As Briana gets ready to leave, she tells Jesus she won’t be that long. “Listen, why don’t You just sit right there ’til I get back. Relax, enjoy! Look, here’s a magazine.” (Flips through a few pages.) “Well, maybe not this particular magazine . . .  wait a minute, television! That’s it!” She picks up the remote and starts flipping through the channels.” Let’s see, what’s on tonight? Maybe not that one, what about . . . or maybe. . . . Listen, seems like kind of a nothing night on TV. Silly me.” She finally decides Jesus needs to just rest until she returns.

As she starts to leave, it’s apparent that Jesus wants to go with her. “Where are You going? You sit down. In the chair, right here. No, You cannot come with me. My friends aren’t the type, er, that is, You wouldn’t enjoy it at all. See you later then . . .”

He attempts to follow her again. Briana tries to hide her frustration. “I said, You sit! I don’t want you to come with me. I mean, I want You, but the time has to be right, understood? And this is simply not the proper time. Stay!”

Once more He starts to follow her. “What gives with You?” she bellows. “I take time out for You, invite You in, then You just try to take over my life! I will tell You when! So back off!”

Again He follows. In utter exasperation, she shouts at Jesus. “I’ve had it with You! Now then, back there in the corner . . .” Then, one at a time, she lifts His hands and mimes driving nails into them as the sound of a hammer blow accompanies each strike. The stages goes black.1

I remember the first time I saw that skit. Like everyone else, I thought, what a fool that girl is. Nobody does that to Jesus! It only took a couple of seconds until I felt hot tears streaming down my face. I realized I do the exact same thing every day of my life in a hundred different ways. Oh, maybe not intentionally or as heartlessly as Briana nailing Jesus’ hands to the cross. Then again, maybe exactly like that. All those times I leave Him out of my plans, my thoughts, my emotions, my activities. All those times I let the day get away from me without ever stopping to pray. All those times I inadvertently ignore scripture telling me how much He yearns for me to seek Him out. “Taste and see that the LORD is good!” the psalmist said in Psalm 34:8. Jeremiah 33:3 says, “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.” What kind of fool ignores invitations like that?

The conviction I felt was overwhelming. Still, it’s nothing more than hot air and smoke and mirrors if all we do is talk about it, fret over it, or pile on massive amounts of guilt about it.

Anne Graham Lotz tells the story of a man who passed by a pet store and saw a magnificent bird in the window. When he went inside to inquire, he saw a sign on the bird’s cage: “This bird is guaranteed to sing.” Despite the exorbitant price of $1,000 including the cage, the man had to have the bird; so he paid for it, took the bird in its cage, and went home. He waited all day for the bird to sing, but it never did.

The next morning he went back to the pet store to complain. The clerk apologized for not mentioning that the bird needed a ladder in its cage before it would sing. The man bought the $20 ladder, took it home, put it in the cage—nothing. Each morning he went back to the pet store, angry that the bird still wouldn’t sing. And each day the clerk apologized and suggested another necessary item for the cage: a bell for $25, a mirror for $30, a swing for $35. The man stormed home on that last day and put the swing in the cage. The bird climbed its ladder, rang its bell, looked into its mirror, swung on its new swing—then promptly dropped dead!

The man was furious. He grabbed the fully-equipped cage with the dead bird and took it back to the pet store. He yelled at the clerk for selling him a bird for $1,000 and the additional $110 worth of toys. “Not only does this bird not sing,” the man roared, “but it’s dead! What went wrong?” “Oh,” the clerk responded, “did I forget to tell you? He also needed birdseed.”2

Sound familiar? Have you ever tried to drive your car when the gas gauge reads empty? Ever put on a pair of snow skis and head down the slopes without first learning how to ski? Ever try to fly a military jet without first learning how to fly? Ever attempt brain surgery with no formal medical training? Get the point? How in the world can you live as a Christian if you’ve never learned how? How can you possibly know the Lord without ever spending time with Him? How can you follow the path He’s set before you if you never ask Him which way to go?

But beyond all our mistaken logic and pathetic attempts to make it on our own are the tremendous blessings we miss when we bypass the simple relationship He offers us through prayer.

Since we’ve already discussed your TV habits, let’s use this analogy: Life without prayer is like watching TV on an ancient twelve-inch black-and-white TV set. The picture is snowy and distorted, and no matter how much aluminum foil you wrap around those rabbit ears, you can’t see a thing. Life with a personal prayer relationship with God is like watching TV on a sixty-inch flat-screen in high definition, with surround-sound speakers and a picture so clear you think you’re right there on the eighteenth hole in Augusta with Mickelson as he makes his final putt.

Baby, I’m all over that flat-screen HD/surround-sound kind of life. That black and white, sorry excuse of an existence is outta here. My guess is, if you’ve read along this far with me, that’s where your heart’s desire is as well. You’re craving the relationship God has offered to you, am I right?

Then let’s do it. Let’s take the plunge and learn how to get started.

But if from there you seek the LORD your God, you will find Him if you look for him with all your heart and with all your soul.

–DEUTERONOMY 4:29

A prayer life rich with meaning and significance doesn’t just happen. So if you’re expecting some kind of divine intervention into your oh-so-busy schedule, don’t hold your breath. Planning ahead to set aside a specific time and place to meet with your heavenly Father is must-do if you’re ever going to be consistent.

Morning Glory

You’re probably not going to like this, but hear me out. I used to think it didn’t matter what time of day you set aside to meet with the Lord so long as you do it. Now I know better. The later in the day, the more likely the interruptions and distractions. But what finally changed my thinking was this realization: Did I really want to give God the leftover crumbs of my day? He deserves the best. When might that be? Come on, now. Say it with me: In the morning. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?

I should probably fess up. I wasn’t always a morning person. Not even close. That all changed a few years ago when I had to go back to work. As I mentioned in chapter 1, I hadn’t worked outside the home for almost fifteen years. Just the thought of getting back into the everyday grind of a job was enough to make this grown woman freak. But I landed a good job (okay, my sister pulled some strings for me) and gradually eased back into the rat race.

The only drawback? I had to be there at six. In the morning. With a half-hour commute, I had to set my alarm for 4:30. In the morning. I always made it to work on time, but with each passing day it felt like I would get up, get dressed, and drive downtown on auto-pilot. Eight hours later, I’d drive home on auto-pilot (don’t act so righteous—sometimes you do it too). By the time I got home and fed the family, I was beat.

I quickly learned that my brain was toast by seven in the evening. This was around the time I experienced my meltdown, which led to my challenge to God (see chapters 1 and 2). As part of that daring, scandalous ultimatum, I began setting my alarm for 3:45 in the morning. That allowed me ample time to get dressed, have an early breakfast (coffeecoffeecoffeecoffee), then spend a minimum of half an hour with the Lord each morning. I won’t lie—it was hard at first. Never had I hated anything as much as the sound of that blasted alarm clock. But I was also desperate. I knew that in order to keep my half of the bargain to meet with Him each morning, I had no choice but to drag my sleepy carcass out of the sack.

With each passing day, then each passing week, it got easier. I’d established a routine that I slowly, slowly began to cherish. You have no idea what a monumental change of attitude that was for me. In the quiet of the morning, long before the sun came up or anyone else in the family awoke, I had the privilege of unhurried, uninterrupted time with my Lord and Savior.

Someone once said that God waits patiently for us, longing to spend time with us. I’m a very visual person. Tell me something and I’ll forget it in five seconds. Show me something and it sticks. When I read a novel, I actually see the story played out like a movie in my head. When I set goals, I have to see the end result by picturing what it might look like. So when I began to think about these morning appointments with God, a very specific visualization popped into my head. Stay with me, now. This will probably sound a bit daft, but I have a point.

In my mind, I saw myself coming downstairs and finding Jesus waiting for me there in the family room off to the right at the bottom of the stairs. (Not that my house has a family room at the bottom of the stairs. In fact, to be honest, it actually looked more like Ward Cleaver’s study in Leave It to Beaver. And for the record, it scares me to think that you might not even know who Ward Cleaver is. I warned you this was weird.) But in this particular imaginary room, two loveseats face each other in the middle of the room with a coffee table between them. Jesus is sitting there, His legs stretched out, feet propped up with ankles crossed on the coffee table. He holds a steaming mug of coffee in His hands. When I enter the room, He looks up with a warm, genuine smile that seems to say, “Diane! I’m so glad you’re here. I was hoping we’d have some time together this morning.” I take a seat across from Him and reach for the mug of coffee He offers me . . .

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t view that cup of coffee He’s prepared for me as an expectation on my part that He’s there to serve me. Rather, I see it as symbolic of His expectation that I’ll be joining Him. He’s prepared for our time together. This puts the ball in my court. Will I make time for Him? Or will I ignore His presence there, waiting for me?

Listen to what Anne Graham Lotz has to say on this matter of expectation:

Have you ever considered that you have a divine appointment when you get up early for your quiet time of prayer and meditation on His Word? . . .  That Jesus is patiently, personally waiting to meet with you there? . . .  What a difference it would make in our attitude of expectancy and our habit of consistency if we truly wrapped our hearts around the knowledge that each is a divine appointment, that Jesus Himself is waiting to meet with us.1

As I sit across from Him, I’m so utterly grateful to find Him here, I’m almost speechless. Then we begin to talk. . . .  I hang on His every word, warmed by the depth of His love and compassion for me. I’m filled with such awe and wonder, so bewildered that He has made time for me—for such a wretch like me—when I so rarely make time for Him. And I’m driven to my knees, asking His forgiveness. Eventually, He dries my tears, helps me back to my seat, then He asks—of all things—what’s on my heart this morning.

I honestly have no earthly idea where that visual came from, but that’s probably because it wasn’t an earthly idea at all. Think about it. God made me. He wired me a certain way, giving me certain unique gifts and characteristics that combine to make me who I am—including this outrageous visually-oriented tendency. It only makes sense that He could have put this scene into my head as a way to court my heart back to Him. In other words, He gets me because He made me.

This visualization has had an amazing effect on me, always reminding me not to miss the blessing of our morning visits. If the day gets away from me, I picture myself flying down those stairs, rushing toward the front door. Then I catch a glimpse of Him still there in the family room, still waiting for me, and I ask myself if there’s anything more important than spending a few moments with my Jesus. The answer is always the same: nothing. Nothing is more important.

I know what you’re thinking. Fine, Diane. Mornings work for you. That’s great. But my mornings are impossible. Any attempt at prayer that early would be a waste of time. I just can’t think clearly until much later in the day. (I won’t tell your boss. Your secret’s safe with me.) I understand and I sympathize. And if you can tell me that your evening or bedtime prayer time works for you, that you genuinely experience God in those remaining moments of your day, then more power to you.

Want to hear something funny? After I left my job, I rarely set my alarm yet I continued to wake up long before dawn. I could never “sleep in” like I used to. It didn’t matter what time I went to bed, I’d still wake up at four or five. For the longest time, it frustrated me, this inability to sleep until a normal hour. Then it hit me. My inner-alarm clock was helping me keep those early morning prayer times I’d learned to cherish. As if God was nudging me, helping me to stay faithful to our morning visits. What I had seen as a curse turned out to be a tremendous blessing.

Okay, fine, you say. Enough with the morning campaign already. Sorry. I guess I’m like someone who quits smoking and becomes a No-Smoking Nazi around others who light up. But I’m convinced that morning is the optimal time for more than just a passing prayer. Here’s a thought.

Do not have your concert first and tune your instruments afterward. Begin the day with God. Begin the day with the Word of God and prayer, and get first of all into harmony with Him.  —James Hudson Taylor^2

What a great quote. It’s even more meaningful when you learn about the man who said it. In the late nineteenth century, James Hudson Taylor became the first Christian missionary to the interior of China where he founded the China Inland Mission. He ministered there for more than fifty-one years and eventually set up more than 205 mission stations staffed with 849 missionaries. Thousands of Chinese came to know Christ as a direct result of his efforts there. His passion for the Chinese still serves as living proof of what God can do in our world if only we’ll open our hearts and lives to be used by Him.

Still not convinced about this whole morning thing? Don’t take my word for it. Take a look at a few verses from the Bible (italics mine).

Morning by morning, O LORD, you hear my voice;

morning by morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.

—Psalm 5:3

But I will sing of your strength,

in the morning I will sing of your love;

for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble.

—Psalm 59:16

But I cry to you for help, O LORD;

in the morning my prayer comes before you.

—Psalm 88:13

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,

that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.

—Psalm 90:14

I rise before dawn and cry for help;

I have put my hope in your word.

—Psalm 119:147

I’ve stated my case. I’ve even thrown in the big guns of scripture. But in the end, the decision is up to you. No matter when you do it, just do it.

A Quiet Place

Now that we’ve settled that, let’s talk about where to have your prayer time. When you think about meeting God for a time of prayer, what does that look like to you? (If you’re tempted to use Ward Cleaver’s study, I’m sorry but it’s already occupied.) Is there a specific room or area that invites you in?

More than any other consideration, you need to find a place with the least amount of distractions. If the bed feels too conducive to sleep, you need to go elsewhere. If the kitchen table in your home rivals Times Square on New Year’s Eve, you might want to scratch it off your list. If the TV in your family room proves to be too tempting, then flee its unholy clutches! Run, baby, run!

I’m ashamed to tell you this, but in the spirit of full disclosure to encourage you by my many, many blunders, I shall. Even after I got into the practice of my early morning prayer times, I still had—and still have—a lot to learn. During the winter months of the year, when it’s too cold to sit out on my back porch, I curl up on our sofa in the family room. I normally have my coffee and breakfast first in an attempt to be fully awake and cognizant before attempting to pray. I figured God wasn’t too thrilled with me nodding off all the time. What better way to get cognizant than to watch the news while munching on my granola, right? Problem is, I’d get sucked in by the teasers of upcoming news stories. Teasers by their very nature are intended to string you along and keep you watching.

So I’d pour another cup of coffee, put the news on mute, go ahead and open my prayer journal, and start praying. Yeah. Like that honors God. I don’t know who I thought I was fooling by keeping one eye on the TV and the other on my journal, but there it is. The true, uncensored confessions of a prayer slacker. Eventually I came to my senses, set up a specific time frame, and turned off the TV before praying. See? I’m maturing. Really. I am.

More than likely I wouldn’t have shared that embarrassing morsel of failure except that I’m sure that you, my friend, have also had some crazy prayer adventures of your own. Like trying to pray while you drive to work with the radio on. Syndicated radio talk show hosts Rick and Bubba are a scream and completely open about their faith in Christ, but they don’t demand your undivided attention like God does, now do they?

Seriously, stop and think about where to meet with your Father. Whether it’s an easy chair by the fireplace, a comfortable nook in your bedroom, or a patio table out on the deck, make it yours. Make it special so that each time you pass by, you’re reminded that this is where you meet with God.

My sister heard about a suggestion to set aside a special chair for God when you meet with Him. She used to have her morning prayer time in a leather armchair in her guest bedroom. Now she sits on the bed, leaving that leather chair empty to remind her that she’s there to meet with her Lord and Savior. She told me how much more personal and meaningful her prayer times have become as she thinks of Him sitting there before her. Interesting idea, don’t you think?

After graduation from seminary, my husband was called to serve as minister of youth and education on a church staff in Naples, Florida. We loved our pastor, Max Cadenhead, and Ken felt blessed and honored to serve with him. One Saturday night after returning to the church from a youth outing, we noticed the lights on in the sanctuary. We opened a back door and saw Max up on the platform, lying prostrate on his face, praying passionately to the Lord. We quietly closed the door, not wishing to intrude on his privacy; but we were overwhelmed with appreciation for this humble man of God. We later learned he spent time every Saturday night there in the sanctuary, praying for the message God had given him for Sunday and for those who would hear it. He wasn’t performing before an audience. He was on his face before God, seeking God’s wisdom in preparation for Sunday’s services.

I’m not suggesting you sneak into your church on Saturday night to pray on the platform. And by all means, leave me out of it should you do so and get arrested. What I am suggesting is for you to put some serious thought into where you will have your daily, divine appointment with God.

We’ve talked about the best time to pray. We’ve looked at options for where to pray. In our next chapter, how about we take a look at what you might need to make the most of your time with God?

The seeds of great discoveries are constantly floating around us, but they only take root in minds well prepared to receive them.

—JOSEPH HENRY

You’ve set a time. You’ve picked out your own special place. You’re almost ready. Only one more suggestion before you get started: Come prepared and equipped.

I know what you’re thinking. Who needs “stuff ” to pray? Why can’t I just pray? Ah. Glad you asked. Obviously, you can pray anytime and anywhere the urge hits you. But we’re focused here on your set-aside, one-on-one daily visit with God. To make the most of the time you’ve allotted, you need to consider including the following.

A Bible

I usually read at least one chapter a day, working my way through different books of the Bible. If it’s a long chapter, I’ll break it down and read it over the course of several days. The point isn’t how much scripture you read, but that you’re reading it. The Psalms are a perfect launching pad, and there are thousands of great verses throughout its 150 chapters.

I switch back and forth between Old and New Testament books. If you’ve never read the Bible through, that’s always a great way to learn about the Bible. Your local Christian bookstore has all kinds of planners to help you do that or look online for “read the Bible through” guidelines. Starting in Genesis isn’t necessarily the best way, so don’t hesitate to get some help. We’ll talk more about this in Chapter 10.

A Prayer Journal

I’ve never found the perfect journal for praying. And believe me, I’ve looked. Either they have only blank pages in a bound book, or they come filled with things I don’t really use or need. When I first started journaling, I used those blank journals with exotic, enticing covers. But I quickly realized a bound book was too confining. I needed a loose-leaf notebook so that I could add or pull pages from one section to another.

One of these days I’d like to design a prayer journal. If you’ve got unlimited monetary resources and you’re looking for a worthy investment, call me. I’ll bring my prototype. We’ll do lunch. For now I’ve made do by converting a Day-Timer® notebook for my needs. You can find them at most office supply stores. Mine is one of the smaller Day-Timers®, approximately 5x7 inches, with a cover that zips. These usually come with colorful tabbed dividers, a calendar, notepads, and lots of other accessories.

By the way, that notepad is essential. Trust me on this. It never fails—I start praying and BAM! I’ll think of something I need to pick up at the store or a phone call I need to remember to make. At my age, if I don’t write it down, it’s gone. Now, instead of having to go dig through my kitchen drawer for a scrap of paper, I just flip over to the notepad in my Day-Timer® journal and make a note to myself. More recently I’ve kept a pad of sticky notes tucked in my journal. I can easily make myself a note, slap it on my cell phone, then get back to my prayer time.

Same thing for the calendar that comes with the Day-Timer®. It’s amazing how often in the middle of my prayer time, my mind will begin to wander . . . Is my dental appointment this week or next? Or Which day is the dog scheduled for her grooming? But rather than get distracted, I just turn to the calendar, check on it, then immediately get back to praying.

I sincerely believe these rabbit-chases—dog, dental, or otherwise—are nothing more than attempts by the devil to yank us out of our time alone with God. Which only proves how important it is to be prepared for his fiery darts . . .  which reminds me of a pastor whose tongue got tangled when he used that expression. I’ll let you figure out what he said. An innocent blunder, but I still chuckle every time I hear the term.

The most effective prayer journal is the one you can best adapt to suit your own individual needs. Once you get into this daily habit, you’ll know exactly what kind of journal works best for you. How is my prayer journal set up? I thought you’d never ask.

In the first section of my journal, I have my “Thank God” entries. Every morning, I start out my prayer time by writing down at least one thing I’m thankful for. A cool breeze on a summer’s day. A letter from a good friend. A warm bed to sleep in on a cold winter’s night. The brilliant splash of color in my flower garden. I find it helps put me into a prayerful attitude of gratitude and praise. It helps me focus on my God and Father.

Then I take the opportunity to come clean before God and ask for His forgiveness: a confession session, if you will. It’s important to get rid of anything that might stand between you and God in this time you have together. But the following words might not be the best way to start off that prayer.

Dear Lord,

So far today, I’m doing all right. I have not gossiped, lost my temper, been greedy, grumpy, nasty, selfish, or self-indulgent. I have not whined, complained, cursed, or eaten any chocolate. I have charged nothing to my credit card. However, I will be getting out of bed in a few minutes, and I will need a lot more help after that. Amen.

Silly, I know, but haven’t we all had days like that? Better yet, here’s a great verse to help get your heart and your mind prepared.

Search me, O God, and know my heart; Try me and know my anxieties; And see if there is any wicked way in me, And lead me in the way everlasting.

—Psalm 139:23-24, NKJV

I used to just pray, “God, forgive me for anything in my life that’s not pleasing to You.” I eventually realized that was nothing more than a quick bypass, avoiding any serious confession of specific problem areas in my life. Now, in this section of my prayer journal, I have a list I run through to help “search me, O God, and know my heart.” It includes a search of:

• my thoughts

• my actions

• my words

• my attitudes

• things I’ve neglected to do

• times I’ve ignored God’s prompting

• times I’ve yanked back control in certain areas of my life

It’s by no means a conclusive list, but it’s a start. I find it much more revealing of what’s really happening in my heart. I also make a special effort to once again visualize Jesus sitting across from me, hearing my prayers. If I’m talking to Him face-to-face, I want to make sure there’s nothing standing between us. And remember, as the French proverb says, “There is no pillow so soft as a clear conscience.”

The next section is for intercessory prayers—prayers for others. It is so important to have written records of these prayers, enabling you to trace God’s hand through all the answers He provides. Again, you’ll know best how to set up this section for your own needs. In my journal, members of my family, extended family, and close friends each have their own page. Over time, as these pages accumulate I’ll paperclip them together. I never toss any of these previous pages because it records a history of prayer for that individual. I also have a page for my church, its staff members and families, as well as church family prayer requests.

I also have a page for urgent/special prayers for world or national tragedies—hurricanes or other violent weather, fatal accidents, wars, etc. When you actually see a written record chronicling the growing number of missing and murdered children, or the heartbreaking occurrences of missing and murdered wives, particularly pregnant wives killed by their husbands, you tend to pray at a much deeper level for those involved and for their families.

In this section I keep other pages like “Prayers for America,” including daily prayer for our president, the leaders of our country, and those serving in our military. There’s also a list of those I’m praying for who need to come to a saving faith in Jesus Christ. What a joy to see an answer to these prayers, some after decades of praying.

The last section is for my personal prayers. It’s amazing how these journal entries begin to tell the story of your prayer life. It helps pinpoint areas of your life that need special attention and enables you to see some of the amazing ways God has guided you and led you. It also helps you recognize recurring problems, challenging you to figure out why you keep dealing with the same issues over and over.

Again, it’s up to you how your journal is set up. It is, after all, just between you and God.

Devotionals*

Why the asterisk, you ask? I tend to think of devotionals, books and prayer guides as optional. I’ve used them from time to time—some I’ve read over and over. If you have the time and the desire to add this to your prayer time, that’s great. As long as it isn’t sidetracking you from actually praying.

The ACTS Formula

I usually avoid things that come across as gimmicky. I can smell ’em a mile away. Why is it so many Christians cling to over-the-top schemes or methods to accomplish their purposes? I’m actually quite persnickety about these practices. Such as preachers who always use alliteration for key points in their sermons. It’s bad enough when it’s the first letter of the words, but the ones that set my teeth on edge are those that alliterate an entire phrase.

1. Suffer in silence to serve the Lord

2. Sacrifice in solitude to save the lost

3. Surrender in surgery to sweeten the leotards

Skip that last one. You get my drift. I always get the feeling these guys sit around for hours, cramming their sermon topics into these icky little devices. Give us a break, brother. And then there’s the old-school favorite, “Pack-a-Pew Night.” Church members are assigned a row of pews and are expected to fill it with friends, family, and other acquaintances. The winner with the most guests gets the coveted bragging rights and/or first in line at the ice cream social following services. Because everyone knows Christians love to eat, amen? If these practices come across cheesy to you and me, can you imagine how corny they appear to non-believers?

But while these tricks of the trade grate on my nerves, I have to say there’s one that can help structure your prayer time. It’s not really a gimmick (I just wanted an excuse to dish out some of my Christianese pet peeves). It’s more of a tool. It’s an acronym to help organize prayers by reminding us of the order in which to pray: ACTS.

Adoration: giving glory to God for who He is.

Confession: asking forgiveness for our sins.

Thanksgiving: expressing appreciation for the many things He has done for us.

Supplication: praying for needs in our own lives and those of others.

You have to admit, it’s a great guideline. Instead of starting our prayer time with a long list of gimmes, it helps us to first recognize God and praise Him for His many attributes. Then, as I mentioned before, it’s important to come clean with the Lord, asking His forgiveness for those areas in our lives that aren’t pleasing to Him; for wrongs we’ve committed, both in action, in word, and in thought; and for the sins of omission, when we’ve neglected what we know is right. Next, to give thanks for all that He has blessed us with, for all the things He’s doing in our lives and the lives of others. Finally, then, we can petition our Father for specific needs.

So there you have it. You’re armed and ready to roll. We’ve discussed the whys, the wheres, and the how-tos. But there’s so much more to think about as you start on this incredible journey. Take a break if you must, but please don’t stop here.

We look upon prayer simply as a means of getting things for ourselves, but the biblical purpose of  prayer is that we may get to know God Himself.

—OSWALD CHAMBERS1

There’s a unique dance of sorts that occurs between new friends. (For my traditional Baptist readers, be advised the use of “dance” here is a figure of speech, so just calm down.) In this dance, you’re finding out what you have in common, picking up subtle hints about likes and dislikes, and in general, paving the way for this newfound relationship. But if you’re like me, not all of your friendships are on an even keel. That pavement may be seriously lopsided by those friends who tend to dominate the relationship. One talks more, one has more crises, one is more demanding—any of this sounding familiar?

Picture this: You have a friend. You spend a lot of time with this friend whenever she’s in town. You talk on the phone several times a week. You do lunch together when you can. But when I ask you to tell me about your friend, mostly you tell me about the hours you’ve spent on the phone with her or the many lunches or dinners you’ve shared.

“What are her hobbies?” I ask.

You pause. “You know, I’m not really sure.”

“What are her passions?” I ask.

You pause again. “That’s a good question. I’m not sure.”

“Well,” I begin, “what do you know about her?”

You tilt your head and look away, as if deep in thought. “Come to think of it, the only thing I do know is that she likes to hang out with me. And she lets me do most of the talking. I guess you could say she’s a good listener. You might have noticed I like to talk a lot!” You laugh, amused at your own wittiness. Then you get that look of understanding in your eyes. “I’ve always thought of her as one of my best friends, but I guess it’s a rather one-sided friendship. Strange, huh?”

“Definitely strange. And a bit sad, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Maybe even pathetic.”

Is that a tear I see in your eye?

“Well surely you can tell me her name, right?”

When you tell me her name, I recognize it immediately because she’s one of my best friends! I begin to tell you about her beautiful oil paintings, many depicting scenes of her world travels.

“She paints? She’s traveled the world?” you marvel. “I wondered why she was out of town so much, but I guess I never thought to ask.”

I continue, telling you about her volunteer work at the children’s hospital and the many children’s books she’s written and illustrated.

“You’re kidding, right?” you ask. I detect a note of cynicism.

“And I’m guessing you probably don’t know that she’s also a pilot. She flies supplies to missionaries in Central America twice a year. You should hear some of her stories,” I say, looking off as I remember a tale about a mongoose on a Dominican runway . . .

“I wonder why she never told me those things?”

I study your expression. “Well, did you ever ask?”

You tilt your head again, squinting your eyes as you search your memory. “Uh . . .  well, that’s odd. I don’t ever remember asking her much of anything.”

I stare at you. “You should really get to know her. She’s the most interesting person I’ve ever known.”

You look at your watch. “Yikes! I’m late for my pedicure. Good to see you again, Sherry!”

As you rush away down the sidewalk, I drop my head with a heavy sigh. “Sarah. My name is Sarah.”

Very funny, right? Not really. I actually know people like that. You probably do too. But let’s put this discussion in a spiritual realm. If you’ve given your heart to God, trusting in His son Jesus Christ as your Savior, then you have a relationship with Him. We’ve already talked about how much He desires a personal relationship with you. But as Dr. Phil often asks, “How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

In all fairness, it’s a little awkward, this relationship—what with you being human and Him being God of the Universe. At first blush, it’s intimidating. Really, really intimidating. Granted, we can never know all there is to know about God because our little human brains and hearts cannot fully comprehend at that level of understanding. But don’t let that stop you from getting to know Him as best you can.

Roll your sleeves up and put some effort into this, okay? Besides, I’ve got a wonderful secret that will help get you started.

The Names of God

Years ago I did a study on the names of God. I wasn’t sure why I needed to learn about these specific names. I think I was mostly curious. I figured as long as I called Him God, Lord, or Father, and called His son Jesus, Christ, or Savior, I had all my bases covered. But I kept hearing people using those other names, so I decided to look into the subject and check it out.

One of the books I studied was Lord, I Want to Know You by Kay Arthur of Precept Ministries. Listen to why Kay Arthur suggests studying the names of God.

In biblical times, a name represented a person’s character. God’s name represents His character, His attributes, His nature. To know His name is to know Him. To boast in His name is to have confidence in who He is! 2

Wow. Who knew that studying these Greek and Hebrew names of God could reveal so much more about the character of God? It was like getting to know Him at a much deeper level than I ever imagined. The list below is by no means complete, but I want to share a few of these special names with you. My heart’s desire is for these to spark a yearning in your soul to get to know God better, and by doing so, have a more personal prayer life with Him.

EL SHADDAI—Lord God Almighty;

The God Who Is Sufficient for the Needs of His People

I will forever hear Amy Grant’s version of the song “El Shaddai” whenever I read or hear this particular name of God. El Shaddai. My all-sufficient God who is able to handle all my needs. Everything I will ever need I can find in Him. Think about that for a moment. Do you sense the power He offers us in those words? There is nothing, absolutely nothing in your life that He cannot handle. I wonder if it’s possible for us to ever fully grasp the complete stress-free life He makes available to us when He promises, “My grace is sufficient for you” (2 Corinthians 12:9). What would that look like in your life? And how would it affect your prayer life?

ABBA—Father

I don’t want to be the one to break it to you, but the original meaning of the word “Abba” didn’t just pop up in the ‘70s with the Swedish singing group. In fact, to be precise, the singers came up with their group’s name by creating an acronym representing their four given names. So for now, my little dancing queen, put away your Mamma Mia CD and tune in to the one true Abba that offers so much more.

There is no more intimate name for God than Abba. The Aramaic word actually means “father,” and in some cultures the meaning is even more closely akin to “Daddy.” It’s a name that’s both heartfelt and warm and filled with respect. Just hours before His death, Jesus called out to His Father in prayer, “Abba Father, everything is possible for You. Take this cup from Me. Yet not what I will, but what You will” (Mark 14:36). We can call upon our Abba Father just as Jesus did, knowing the heart of the Father hears our every prayer.

EL ELYON—The Most High God

Sovereign and supreme, our Most High God is above all and over all. That pretty much covers everything, doesn’t it? Seriously, if all we knew of God was this one name and the incredible magnitude of its meaning, we would never again know the meaning of worry. By understanding God’s sovereignty—His absolute control over everything—we can live our lives in the utter security of trusting Him. It means we recognize the fact that nothing can happen to us without His permission. Look at what Colossians 1:16-17 has to say on this attribute of God’s character.

For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

What is it you worry about most? What are the things that sometimes grip your soul and render you all but useless because you can’t let go of them? By calling on El Elyon, you can begin to trust the One who knows far better how to deal with your yesterdays, your todays, and all your tomorrows. Such absolute confidence can add a whole new dimension to your prayer life as you come before El Elyon, your Most High God.

JEHOVAH—Self-Existent One: I AM WHO I AM

Most of us are familiar with the name Jehovah, probably because it’s the name used for God more than any other—more than 6800 times in the Old Testament alone. Remember the story of the burning bush? Quite an attention getter there, that burning bush . . . In the midst of it, God explained to Moses that He had heard the cry of His people and was going to deliver them out of the hands of the Egyptians and bring them into the Promised Land. He instructed Moses to go before Pharaoh to plead on behalf of his people. But Moses was a wee bit hesitant, as you might imagine. Can’t you just see him hold up his hands, “Who, me? Are you kidding?”

Then Moses asked what to tell his people about all this if they should ask who sent him. Here’s the Lord’s response.

God said to Moses, “I am who I am. . . .  Say to the Israelites, ‘The LORD, the God of your fathers—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob—has sent me to you.’ This is my name forever, the name by which I am to be remembered from generation to generation.”

—Exodus 3:14-15

The name Jehovah, or Yahweh, means self-existing. He was never created, has always been, and will forever remain. The Alpha and the Omega. When all around us life in this old world makes no sense, we have the everlasting promises of our Jehovah. We can come boldly before our Jehovah God in prayer because of those promises!

ELOHIM—The Creator

El means strength and unlimited power—two characteristics definitely required for the One who would speak all of life into existence. But what’s especially interesting is the fact this Hebrew name for God is actually plural, designated by the -him ending, which implies three or more. Isn’t that cool? So when the first verse in the Bible, Genesis 1:1, uses this word, it more literally means “In the beginning Three-in-one-God created the heavens and the earth”—referring to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. Meaning, on page one of God’s word He tells us exactly who He is!

“You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they were created and have their being.”—Revelation 4:11

All creation originated in Him. And unlike those who believe life began amidst some big bang or explosion, somehow just falling perfectly into place, we know that our Elohim had a plan and purpose for everything He created. That includes you and me. What is His purpose for you and me? We were created for Him. Each of us was given unique talents and interests and abilities, all for the purpose of glorifying God.

So tell me, how does such knowledge affect the way you’ll pray to Elohim, your Creator?

JEHOVAH RAPHA—The Lord Our Healer

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (Psalm 147:3). I love this verse. I’ve prayed it over and over for those who are hurting, those suffering a debilitating depression or physical trauma, and even for myself in times of need. God can heal the spirit, mind, and body. He’s also keenly aware of the sin that corrupts our world, and He makes the following promise.

If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.

—2 Chronicles 7:14

The subject of healing is often difficult for us as humans to wrap our minds around. Why is one healed and another not? If God is all powerful as Jehovah-Rapha, then He is able to heal everyone. So why doesn’t He? This side of heaven, we will never know the answers to such questions. Still, because He loves us so much, we know we can trust Him—even with our inability to understand or comprehend His ways.

JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH—The Lord Is There

He is everywhere. He is omniscient and omnipresent. He knows everything far beyond our human capacity to know. After Moses died, God called upon Joshua to lead His people into the Promised Land. Now, as they were about to cross the Jordan River, God promised to protect them with His presence.

No one will be able to stand up against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you or forsake you.

—Joshua 1:5

For you and me, just knowing His presence is all around us can help lift us from the darkest night, embrace us in the loneliest hour, give us strength when we are tempted, and enable us to live confident and secure in His promises.

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

—Psalm 139:7-10

ADONAI—Lord and Master

This name of God indicates a relationship. If He is indeed my Lord and Master, that means I must submit to Him in every area of my life. These days we cringe when we hear the word submission. We associate it with giving in and being weak. But by getting to know who He is, by digging into His Word and spending time with Him, we quickly learn that He is more than worthy of being our Lord and Master. If you knew without question that He would care for your every need, fight for you, protect you, and cherish you, would you hesitate to give yourself completely to Him? To submit to His lordship with your heart, soul, and body? Well, then, good news! The Bible is packed with promises that He’ll do just that.

But once again, let me remind you that His being Lord is less about your needs being cared for and entirely about Him being worshipped and honored. It’s the relationship. I bow to Him because He is My Lord and Master.

JEHOVAH-JIREH—The Lord Will Provide

One of the most heart-wrenching stories in the Bible is found in Genesis 22. God tells Abraham to take his only son, Isaac, to offer him as a burnt offering. I don’t know about you, but I’m quite certain that I wouldn’t have been able to follow the Lord’s request to sacrifice one of my children. Yet scripture tells us that Abraham did as he was told, following God’s instructions even up to the point where he bound Isaac, laid him on top of the wood on the altar, then raised the knife to slay him.

Try to visualize Isaac’s reaction: the wild fear in his eyes as he searches his father’s face for some semblance of understanding, the brokenhearted sadness he surely found there in his father’s countenance. I cannot fully grasp the depth of this scenario no matter how many times I read it and regardless of the fact that I know how the story ends. I always hold my breath at this point in the story, with Abraham’s arms stretched above him, his hands firmly grasping his knife, ready to take his son’s life . . . until the Lord cries out, “Abraham! Abraham!” and rescinds His command.

Abraham has proven worthy, willing to sacrifice his only son for God. In return, God provided a ram for him to sacrifice in place of Isaac. Can’t you feel the overwhelming relief that must have washed over him? Don’t you wonder how Isaac felt about this “test” between God and his father? Just think about that for a moment.

Perhaps like you, I’ve heard and read this story many, many times in my life. Yet it still gives me goosebumps. But I also see the unforgettable, visual portrayal of God’s love for us as it parallels the son He gave up on our behalf. Jesus was the sacrificial lamb who died to save us! And He did so willingly: “Not my will, but yours be done” (Luke 22:42).

Jehovah-Jireh, the Lord Will Provide. To me, this is the name that reveals more than any other the depth of God’s love for us. But God not only makes provision for our salvation, He also provides for all of our needs. He sees our needs, He knows them even before we do, and He wants us to call upon Him for each and every one of them. Philippians 4:19 says, “My God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus” (NKJV).

I’m not sure what it says about me (don’t analyze me, bro), but this is one of my favorite names of God. Whether I’m praying for others or for a need in my own life, I call upon Jehovah-Jireh. What a privilege to know He’s the one who extended the invitation to me to come to Him for my every need. What amazing grace!

More Names of God

I hope by now you’ve caught a glimpse of the astounding characteristics of God through the study of His names. There are many more, of course, and I invite you to make a personal commitment to study these further. Here are a few more to whet your appetite.

EL ROI—The God Who Sees

EL OLAM—The Everlasting God

JEHOVAH-SHALOM—The Lord Our Peace

JEHOVAH-SABAOTH—The Lord of Hosts

JEHOVAH-RAAH—The Lord My Shepherd

JEHOVAH-NISSI—The Lord My Banner

JEHOVAH-MEKODDISHKEM—The Lord Who Sanctifies You

So go ahead. Treat yourself. Spend some time getting to know your Lord God Jehovah, your Abba Father, your El Shaddai, your Adonai.

To get the full flavor of an herb, it must be pressed between the fingers, so it is the same with the Scriptures; the more familiar they become, the more they reveal their hidden treasures and yield their indescribable riches.

—JOHN CHRYSOSTOM, A.D. 347-407

My pastor once said, “More than anything else, God breathed life into you so you could know Him.” Yet most of us have no clue what it means to actually “know God.” In the last chapter we studied some of the names of God, which helped give us a glimpse of who God is. But stopping there would be like the hockey player who suits up for games without ever going to practice. He may know how to skate, but he has no idea about the offensive and defensive strategies of the game. When he’s blindsided by an opposing team member who smashes him against the wall, he slowly gets up, bruised and battered, and hurries off the ice. He may even rush out of the arena vowing never again to set foot on ice. He decides hockey should be played only by gifted athletes like Wayne Gretzky.

With righteous indignation, we scoff, “What a moron!” But just a minute. Are his actions any different from ours when it comes to studying the Bible? We may think it’s all well and good for others, especially those “called” into ministry—pastors, preachers, and priests. It’s their job, right? We shrug it off assuming we could never come close to understanding scripture, much less knowing God in that way. Better to leave that to the pros.

But what happens when you or I are blindsided like that hockey-player-wannabe? What do we do when life gets ugly and messy? How do we survive the shock of divorce or the death of a spouse or child or parent? How do we handle horrible physical injury from an accident? How do our soldiers and sailors move beyond life-changing battle wounds while serving in times of war?

Put yourself in any of those situations and tell me how you would handle such a tragedy. Until we’ve been there, we might like to think we’d cope. Somehow we’d make it. But when we’re actually staring at the tiny coffin holding our baby’s body, we realize “coping” isn’t even in our vocabulary. Until we’re comforting a son or husband who just lost both arms and legs when his convoy hit a roadside bomb, we have no idea how we’ll ever make it another hour, day, or month—much less the rest of our lives.

The good news is we don’t have to suffer alone. We don’t have to carry the burdens of our messy lives alone. God is there for us. He wants to be the Comforter in Chief for the worst that life on this earth may hand us. But we need to know Him—genuinely know Him—not just when tragedy strikes. We need to know Him every moment of every day we live. We need to quit leaving it to the professionals and make knowing Him the most important mission of our lives.

Let me share a passage of scripture with you. The setting was the Lord’s Supper. Jesus was giving His final words of wisdom and instruction to His disciples (and to us), knowing He would soon be arrested and crucified. Here’s what He says:

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me, he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. —John 15:4-6, ESV

We don’t use the term abide much in our culture today. In the context of these verses, it represents the idea of being at home with or living with. Now don’t get nervous or freaked out, but I actually looked up abide in the original Greek and discovered it’s the word meno. It means “to stay (in a given place, state, relation, or expectancy): abide, continue, dwell, endure, be present, remain, stand.”1 In today’s vernacular we might describe it as hanging out with someone on a personal level. I’m guessing Jesus knew we’d get confused about this whole concept, so He described it through the metaphor of a vine and its branches. If He is the vine and we are the branches, the only way we’ll survive is for us to be connected to Him: to dwell with Him or to remain in a relationship with Him. Otherwise we shrivel up like those useless branches and get tossed in the fire.

You make the call: Abide with Jesus and get to know Him—or go your own way without Him and get toasted. Which will it be? The Lord also gives us a beautiful promise in the next couple of verses of that passage.

If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.

—John 15:7-11, ESV

He just lays it all out there, doesn’t He? He offers us the absolute purest form of joy if only we’ll spend time with Him, live with Him, dwell in Him. Unfortunately, our selfish human tendency is to make a grab for the blessings He offers without any intention of actually doing the prerequisite abiding. Gimme some of that vino, baby! Fill my glass to overflowing! We completely blow it, ignoring the fact that the vineyard will only bear fruit if we take care of the vine.

“If you abide in me, and my words abide in you . . . ”

The only way we will ever get to know God is by reading His Word. It’s all there. He’s written it all out for us. Everything we ever need to know about the God of the universe—the God who made you and me, the God who is able to provide every answer to every question we will ever have—is right there in the Bible.

Excuse me, did you just yawn while reading what I just said?

See, that’s the problem. Most of us know little or nothing about the Bible. We’ve never spent any quality time reading it, let alone studying it. Oh, a snippet here, a verse there, but reading to study God’s word? Hardly. Perhaps a few scripture verses attached to Sunday’s sermon are outlined in our church bulletin. Great! But that was never intended to be the full extent of our Bible knowledge.

For those of us who may have grown up in church, attending Sunday school regularly, we may have an inkling about certain passages. We may have memorized the books of the Bible or participated in Bible drill contests. But we’re sadly remiss if that was the last of our Bible training.

A side note, if I may. Yes, we’re all responsible for our own lives and our individual walk with Christ. But I think a certain responsibility also falls on those who are called to preach and teach. For hundreds of years far too many men and women who have preached to us and taught us God’s Word have taken the most important message in all of history and made it dry as sawdust. They’ve made the Living Word of Life so parched and tasteless it’s a wonder anyone still listens.

When Ken was in seminary we attended a large metropolitan church in Fort Worth. We were part of dynamic Sunday school class of other young couples, most of them fellow seminary students. Our teacher was a vice president at the seminary. He was a phenomenal Bible teacher, and we loved both him and his precious wife.

The pastor of the church? Oh my. Let’s just say we all had a nickname for him—Snooze Robbins (not his real last name; I’m not that heartless). Honestly, it was an Olympic event just trying to stay awake during his messages. He was a beloved man who dearly loved the Lord, but he was long, long overdue for retirement. Somewhere along the line he just lost what I call that fire in the belly for preaching. I don’t for a minute doubt his passion or heart for God. I think it was more a case of a worn-out delivery. Fortunately, while we were still there at seminary, he did in fact retire.

Then there are the overabundance of Bible teachers or preachers on television who drone on and on as if they’re reading the phone book instead of God’s love letter to us. Give me a break. Granted, I’m not a big fan of the screamers or the hell-fire-and-damnation preachers or those who sob through their messages. So I’m not sure which is worse. That’s probably a matter of personal preference. But one thing I know: God’s love letter to you and me is anything but bland!

Jim Davis was the minister of music at the downtown Tulsa church where I grew up. They broke the mold with Jim. He was out of the box before there was a box. The man was hilarious. We couldn’t get enough of him, and those of us in the youth group often stopped by his office whenever we were at church. On the wall hung a framed poster of a traditional church service as seen from the preacher’s point of view behind the pulpit. There on the first row is Jesus, dressed in biblical garb. He’s slumped down in the pew, His legs stretched out in front of Him, crossed at the ankles, His head resting on the shoulder of the man next to Him. He’s sound asleep. You can almost hear Him snoring. I love that poster. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought of that image through the years.

Dear pastor, if your preaching is that dull and boring, I beg you to take a sabbatical and try to find out why. What sucked the life out of your calling? How can you make the life-changing, astonishing good news of God’s amazing love so monotonous and bland? What happened to your passion?

There’s a wonderful verse in Psalm 34:8 where David cries out, “Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good!” Bland? Dull? Boring? No way.

Unfortunately, too many of us have never “tasted” to begin with; and for those who have, many were treated to a flavorless knock-off that was nothing like God intended. Please don’t shun the greatest story ever told just because of some past “unsavory” experience.

Through the course of my life, I’ve attended a lot of different churches. From time to time I would hear murmurings in some of those congregations, something along the lines of, “I’m just not being fed spiritually here.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard those exact words, no matter where I attended church. Such a strange concept to me. Whenever I heard it, I was always a little tempted to tie a bib around the person’s neck and twist open a jar of baby food. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

It also struck me that the person making that statement was somehow implying he or she was just oh-so-much-more spiritual than the pastor of the church. Okay. I suppose that’s entirely possible. But let’s be honest. Is your spiritual health your pastor’s responsibility, or is it yours? Because I’ve always thought of the whole church and Sunday message experience as so much icing on the cake. But it’s my responsibility to make that cake. I’m responsible for my own spiritual growth, and so are you.

Isn’t it time to yank off that bib and find out for yourself what’s in this Love Letter God wrote you? Isn’t it time you took your relationship with God to the next level and discovered all that it can be?

Like newborn infants, long for the pure spiritual milk, that by it you may grow up into salvation— if indeed you have tasted that the Lord is good.

—1 Peter 2:2-3, ESV

Spiritual milk is sufficient for spiritual “babes in Christ”; but as you grow, you require more. As the physical body needs protein, the spiritual body also yearns for something more substantial. We need to understand the teachings of Scripture, the depth of God’s love, the call to tell others of God’s grace, hope, and forgiveness. Sadly, many of us never grow beyond those babes in Christ. We’re content to be spoon-fed; and if no one feeds us, we shrivel up spiritually and become useless. Envision grown adults still wearing diapers, if you will. They’re everywhere. And yes, they’re seated on the pews all around you. (I wonder if that’s where the term “pew” came from? I’m aghast at the thought.)

In Lord, Teach Me to Pray, Kay Arthur put it this way: “If we do not know our God and His ways, our prayer lives will be impotent and ineffective.”2 And it all goes back to knowing God through His Word. Likewise, if we don’t have a meaningful prayer life, we’re never going to experience the life God intended for us to live. We may fool ourselves into thinking it’s enough to attend church regularly or toss a few dollars into the offering plate, but we certainly don’t fool God.

Do you have a serious hunger for God? A deep-seated yearning to know Him well enough that you’re completely at ease in His presence as you pray? Then I challenge you to feed that hunger with some serious “meat” and satisfy that longing by dusting off your Bible and getting genuinely acquainted with Him, one-on-one.

Okay, I’ve made the commitment to start reading my Bible. But where do I start?

There are all manner of ways to study the Bible. The first order of business is picking out the right translation. Some would say the King James Version is the only accurate translation. Others find more updated translations—like the English Standard Bible or the New American Standard Bible—are easier to understand. Paraphrased versions are more reader-friendly but be advised they are just that—paraphrased. Stick to a good study Bible for more accurate translations.

Reading the Bible from start to finish—from Genesis to the book of Revelation—would never be a waste of time, but I don’t think it’s the best way to start. Do your homework. If your church offers a Bible study group, sign up for it. Check your nearest Christian bookstore for study books to help get you started. Find out which method appeals to you to get the most out of your reading. There are some excellent resources available to help you on this journey, like the Read-the-Bible-in-a-Year plans that offer a mix of Old and New Testament readings each day. That’s a great way to get the overview of this magnificent book. Others suggest starting with the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) in the New Testament—preferably starting first with the book of John, then reading through the rest of the New Testament. Whatever your choice, just make sure you have a plan and stick to it.

I’ll never forget the first time my family attempted to have family Bible reading times together. I was probably eight or nine years old at the time. We’d recently moved to another state and joined a Bible-teaching church where families were encouraged to read the Bible together. After dinner one night, we all sat down in our living room. My father began reading the first chapter of Matthew. If you’re not familiar with that chapter, it’s a long list of names tracing the genealogy of Christ, going all the way back to Abraham in the Old Testament. The King James Version uses the term begat, which basically means “produced” or “gave birth to.” Take a look.

The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren; And Judas begat Pharez and Zerah of Tamar; and Pharez begat Hezron; and Hezron begat Ram.

—Matthew 1:1-3, KJV

Begat, begat, begat. It continues like this for the entire chapter. Fascinating reading, I suppose, if you’re into that sort of thing. So Dad thought we should just skip over all those verses and move along. Mom thought we should include them. They got into quite a “discussion” over it; and long story short, that was the end of our family Bible readings. My sister and I looked at each other in silent sibling-speak. What was that all about?

I know what you’re thinking. How silly to let something so trivial keep you from a meaningful family experience. You’re exactly right. But my parents were in uncharted territory and really had no idea how to go about it. They needed a plan. They needed to know the best way to read through a massive book that’s hundreds of pages long, covering sixty-six individual books, without getting tripped up.

To a newbie, I would give a quick caution. It’s important to note that the books of the Bible were written thousands of years ago, and some have been translated from what are called the dead languages. Meaning, there will be some passages that are difficult to understand. There are also historical, cultural, and linguistic differences to keep in mind, as well as a whole truckload of literary devices and types. All the more reason to join a Bible study group where you can work through the passages that may stump you on first read.

Case in point. There’s a story in the second chapter of the book of John that tells of the occasion when Jesus performed His first public miracle. The setting was a wedding in Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother, Mary, was also a guest at the wedding. At some point during the wedding, the wine ran out. Skimpy host? Over-imbibing guests? Who knows. But for some reason, the Bible tells us Mary went to Jesus and said, “They have no more wine.” Did she know He had a special “gift set” for this type of thing? Probably so. There’s no telling what kind of mysterious antics young Jesus had dazzled her with through the years. But He’d never performed any of those miracles in public before. And evidently, He wasn’t ready to go public that day because He responded to her by saying, “Woman, what does this have to do with me?” (John 2:4, ESV)

As a mother, I’m thinking Mary’s eyes would have sparked with instant fury. She would have yanked her son by His ear and said, “What did you just say to me, young man? You do not talk to your mother like that! I raised you better than that! Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through for You? Do you? The ridicule I endured in our town when I was carrying You? The ridiculous accommodations I had to put up with at your untimely arrival that night in Bethlehem? Here—wanna see the stretch marks?!” At which point, Jesus surely would’ve groveled, apologized profusely, then come up with a better way to express Himself. Right?

Not so fast. See, we jump to all kinds of conclusions if we just give a quick read to passages of scripture like this. For years I was indignant that Jesus would talk to His mother like that—until I finally put on my big girl pants and decided to do some research. Turns out the original Greek word He used for “woman” in this verse isn’t nearly as disrespectful as it sounds in today’s English. In fact, Jesus used the very same term when He lovingly addressed His mother for the last time from the cross. But His use of that word toward her at that wedding in Cana was most likely a term of endearment that also served to gently inform her that their relationship would now change. He wasn’t five any more. He was thirty years old, which in that time period was ancient. And if Mary unknowingly prodded Him into performing this “public” miracle of turning water into wine, perhaps He used the opportunity to let her know He was now stepping into His role as the Son of God, no longer Mary’s little boy.

All that to say, the Bible is packed full of fascinating stories and relevant information for our lives. And it is worthy of our time and hopefully our passion to study it and learn about it, to dig beyond the mere words on the page to gain a more complete understanding of this love letter from God.

I think the more you know about the Bible, the more you’ll want to dig deeper into specific books of the Bible. I love reading Psalms. It was probably the first book of the Bible I studied. Sunday school teachers taught us if we let our Bibles fall open in the middle, we’d find the Psalms. I read through those 150 chapters at least two or three times a year.

Each time I do, it’s like getting reacquainted with old friends. I’ve underlined favorite passages and highlighted particular verses, jotting down the dates when they had significant meaning in my life’s journey. I usually read through the New Testament at least once a year. There, I spend a little extra time in the book of James and Paul’s letters to the Ephesians and the Philippians—some of my favorite books.

I have friends who are completely fascinated by Revelation, the last book of the Bible, which is filled with prophecy. In other words, the Bible is quite literally a book that has something for everyone. That said, you really should read through the entire Bible at some point in your spiritual journey. Otherwise, it’s much too easy to take things out of context or jump to inaccurate conclusions. In other words, read the book!

Once you become acquainted with God’s Word and the many lessons and stories in it, you begin to understand more about your heavenly Father, whom you’ve committed to follow. With each new morsel of truth, you learn better how to live your life. You can finally begin to abide in Him as He has called you to do.

“So then faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God” (Romans 10:17, NKJV). With that promise, we can rest in the assurance that we’re walking according to His plan for our lives. It is the greatest adventure you’ll ever live, my friend. Don’t miss the blessing.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.

—PSALM 42:1-2

Unless you’ve dozed through the last ten chapters, you’ve hopefully been inspired to take the next step in your relationship with God and get serious about your prayer life. If that’s the case, my work is done! Even if you’re only thinking about it more than you ever have, it’s a start. Baby steps, my friend. We’ve all got to start somewhere.

But I’m guessing you’re probably still struggling with a number of issues. Like what to do when your “want-to” isn’t cooperating. In Chapter 6 I asked you how badly you want it, this prayer relationship with God. But what do you do when you know you should make time for God, but no matter how hard you try, you just can’t seem to want to enough to do something about it? What should you do?

Good question. The mere fact you acknowledge there’s a problem with your want-to is a sign you’re moving in the right direction. And for the record, you’re not alone with this one. We’re all guilty of getting caught up in the world we live in and demoting God to the back of the bus. Or, like Briana’s character in Chapter 6, we grant Jesus access into only certain parts of our lives, in no uncertain terms. So maybe the solution is to take the focus off the lack of motivation on your part and shoot some light on how much He loves you. Remember the song you learned as a child, “Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so.” Let’s put that little verse to the test and see just how much God loves you. Don’t just rush through these. Make sure the truth of each verse reaches deep into your heart.

I lift up my eyes to the hills

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD,

the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—

he who watches over you will not slumber.

—Psalm 121:1-3

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted,

And saves those who are crushed in spirit.

—Psalm 34:18, NASB

I have set the LORD continually before me;

Because He is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.

—Psalm 16:8, NASB

In my distress I called upon the Lord,

and cried to my God for help;

He heard my voice out of His temple,

and my cry for help before Him came into His ears.

—Psalm 18:6, NASB

Well, look at you—all grown up and reading scripture! I knew you could do it! But stay with me for this next one. It’s quite a bit longer but one of the most intensely personal scriptures you’ll ever read. Psalm 139 is indeed a love letter. In it, the psalmist describes the depth of God’s love. If ever you find yourself doubting His utter devotion and love for you, camp yourself right here and bask in the freshness of His affection for you.

O LORD, you have searched me and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down,

you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD.

You hem me in, behind and before;

you have laid your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.

Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

Even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,”

Even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

How precious to me are your thoughts,

O God! How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.

When I awake, I am still with you.

—Psalm 139:1-18

Hold on. I want you to go back and read through this passage from Psalm 139 once again, this time asking yourself if you honestly comprehend and embrace every word offered there.

Do you get it? Are you beginning to understand how intimately God knows and loves you? Overwhelming, isn’t it? But just in case there’s still an inkling of doubt in your mind, jump over to the New Testament and read this next verse:

For God so loved the world

that he gave his one and only Son

that whoever believes in him

shall not perish but have eternal life.

—John 3:16

If there were a Scripture Hall of Fame, this verse would be Numero Uno. Because God didn’t just talk the talk, He quite literally walked the walk. He was not only willing to die for you, He did die for you through the sacrifice of His Son Jesus Christ. He loves you! Do you believe that? Do the words of this verse resonate somewhere inside you? Do you understand that “whoever believes” means if you had been the only one, He still would have died for you?

Hold that thought for just one moment. I want to share something I read once in a magazine article about former University of Florida quarterback Tim Tebow. If you know anything about this extraordinarily talented young man—the only sophomore ever to win the Heisman Trophy—you know he wasn’t only one of the greatest college football players of our time, he’s also an outspoken follower of Christ who sees his athletic abilities as a gift from God specifically as an opportunity to tell others about Christ. And Tebow really walks that walk. On Gator game days, he was well-known for writing scripture references on his eye-black (that black sticker or grease below the eyes that helps reduce glare). For the January 8, 2009, BCS National Championship game against OU, Tebow wore “John 3:16” beneath his eyes. Check this out.

Within 24 hours of the game, the reference was googled 93 million times. More than passing or rushing yards, this was a statistic Tebow savored. It meant he’d achieved his dream of deflecting his fame to his Savior.1

Tim Tebow gets it. He understands the message of John 3:16. He knows that if he was the only one, Christ still would have died for him. And he lives his life out loud giving God the glory every chance he gets.

What about you? Do you get it? Does John 3:16 resonate in your life as if it matters? You don’t have to be a Heisman Trophy winner or an NFL quarterback to accept the gift of life Christ is offering to you. But you sure ought to understand the sacrifice Christ made to give you that gift of eternal life.

Let’s take it one step further. Romans 8:31b asks, “If God is for us, who can be against us?” Excellent question. But don’t make a common misinterpretation here. This isn’t about God joining your team; it’s about you joining His. I always love to hear athletes like Tim Tebow give God the glory after a big win, be it the National Championship, the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Olympics, or any other sporting event. But I’m pretty sure there are probably many other individuals on the opposing teams who love God—and whom God loves—just as much. Contrary to popular belief, the Almighty doesn’t have pennants hanging around heaven, showing His preference for the Florida Gators (hard to believe but true, Gator fans), the Tennessee Titans, Boston Red Sox, Orlando Magic, or whatever team you happen to be rooting for. (Although I must admit, I’ve often wondered if He’s misplaced His Chicago Cubs pennant. Think maybe His goat ate it?)

Abraham Lincoln was once asked if he believed God was on the side of the Union soldiers during the Civil War. He answered, “I don’t ask God to choose sides. I want to be on His side since He is always right.” Preach it, Abe!

The point is, we need to leave our pride and our egos behind, because it’s not about us. It’s totally about Him. So often we barge ahead, making our decisions and following our plan of action, then ask Him to bless it, as if somehow He owes it to us. Then we’re baffled when things get screwed up and don’t turn out the way we want them to. If only we’d learn, as we talked about earlier, to stay out of that pilot’s seat and let Him take control. Don’t you wonder why He puts up with all the stupid mistakes we make over and over and over?

It’s called grace. Unmerited favor from God. Hard for us to comprehend, but it’s one of the biggest blessings He offers us.

Hey, I’ve got good news for you. Skip down to the last two verses of Romans 8 and see what else Paul has to say about God’s love for us.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  —Romans 8:38-39

None of those things will stand in the way of God’s love for you. Got it? He loves you! Any questions? If not, let’s move on.

Pray then like this . . .

—MATTHEW 6:9A (ESV)

We’re having coffee, you and I. You know I’m writing a book about prayer, so I discern you want to ask me a question. Go for it. I’m all ears. You tell me that you often say the Lord’s Prayer and even an occasional meal-time prayer of thanks. Then you ask, “Isn’t that enough?”

Well, that depends. If you’re satisfied to keep your relationship with God at arm’s length, then you’re good to go. But now it’s my turn to ask you a question. When you pray the Lord’s Prayer, do you dwell on the words you’re saying? Are you cognizant of what you’re actually praying? Or have you said the words so often that you rattle off the prayer without really thinking, like praying on autopilot?

Have you ever driven somewhere only to arrive at your destination without any conscious memory of the actual drive that got you there? This happens frequently for those who drive to and from work each day. Quite a shock when you pull into your parking place and haven’t a clue where your mind was for the duration of your commute, isn’t it?

When I was growing up in Tulsa, we made the drive from the suburbs to our downtown church so often that sometimes we’d get halfway there only to realize we meant to go somewhere else. It’s a little frightening to think how many folks get behind the wheel of a car or truck only to check out mentally. We’ve all done it. It’s a miracle any of us are still alive.

If we’re honest, when we pray the same exact prayer every day without giving it so much as a single attentive thought, we’re not really praying at all. We’re merely reciting words memorized long ago that may or may not have ever held any significance because we’ve never opened our hearts and our minds to their meaning. How pathetic is that? And be assured God is not impressed. He knows our hearts. He knows whether we’re plugged in or just stopping by for a quick tip of the hat in His direction. Matthew 6:7 (ESV) says, “And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think that they will be heard for their many words.”

Oh, dear. I’m afraid I have another confession to make. (If you’re keeping count, don’t. I might have to hurt you.) Despite my journey to learn all I can about having a meaningful prayer life, I have to admit there have been times I’ve merely gone through the motions. More often than I care to mention. I’ve always wondered how the mind can do two things at once. Like reading something only to realize your mind was actually somewhere else entirely. How is that even possible? Happens to me all the time. Especially when I’m reading the Bible. In my head, I can hear myself reading the words on the page. But it dawns on me minutes or pages later that I’ve been consumed with thinking about something else entirely. When the realization hits me, I’m embarrassed, knowing God isn’t amused or impressed. Oh, I’m quite sure He’s used to it, and not just from moi. But once again, I’m on my knees asking His forgiveness.

Even as we pray, it’s also very easy to slide into another bad habit: the mindless recitation of requests—God bless Susie, God bless Fred, God bless Debbie, God bless Ted . . . But let’s be honest. If these prayers are nothing more than meaningless arrows shot heavenward, they don’t exactly represent a heart that’s deeply passionate about these people, do they? Who do we think we’re fooling? I suppose these rote prayers are better than nothing, but they certainly won’t enrich your relationship with God. Let’s face it, if this is your idea of what prayer is all about, you might as well just jot down your list of concerns, then stuff it in your Bible, tell God where He can find it if He’s interested, and let it go at that. Seriously, why bother?

John Bunyan once said, “In prayer it is better to have a heart without words than words without a heart.” If it’s the desire of your heart to grow in your walk with your Lord and Savior, then you understand prayer must be a purposeful matter of the heart.

When Jesus taught the multitudes how to pray, He prefaced His model prayer with a few warnings, including this one in Matthew 6:5 (ESV):

And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others.

Did you catch that? Jesus called them hypocrites. He wasn’t fooled by these bragging fakers. Neither is He fooled by you or me today when we pray in any manner that’s not sincere and heartfelt.

Speaking of the Lord’s Prayer, it’s important to remember that Jesus taught us this prayer for us to use as a model. We seem to skip over the first four words in the introduction of this most famous of all prayers. Jesus said, “Pray then like this” (Matthew 6:9, ESV, emphasis added). He didn’t say, “Pray this exact prayer, these exact words,” did He? It’s a guide or outline, if you will, in which He instructed us how to pray. You can be sure He never intended for us to merely recite these words in mindless repetition. Look at it as a template for your prayers.

To acknowledge God’s presence.

Our Father in heaven,

hallowed be your name.

To proclaim God’s sovereignty.

Your kingdom come,

Your will be done

on earth as it is in heaven.

To submit our needs before Him.

Give us this day our daily bread.

To ask for forgiveness.

and forgive us our debts,

To forgive others.

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

To ask for God’s protection.

And lead us not into temptation,

To ask God to rescue us from the sin of the world.

but deliver us from evil.

—Matthew 6:9-13, ESV

He gave us the perfect formula for prayer. But did you know He also hears your prayers even when the words don’t form on your lips?

Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses.

For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought,

but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us

with groanings which cannot be uttered . . .

He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God.

—Romans 8:26-27, NKJV

To intercede means to plead on another’s behalf. When we are worried or confused or so heartbroken that we can’t find the words to pray, Paul reminds us that God’s Holy Spirit will plead on our behalf. He expresses for us what we cannot. On the darkest night, He is there for us. Why? As I keep telling you, He loves you.

Hear my prayer, O LORD,

Listen to my cry for help;

Be not deaf to my weeping.

—PSALM 39:12A

Whenever the subject of prayer comes up, people always want to talk about the prayers they prayed that God didn’t answer. It always amazes me how ready these individuals are to dismiss the whole concept of prayer based on one single prayer that wasn’t answered—at least not in their eyes. It’s like the Pony Prayer we talked about previously: Prayed for a pony, didn’t get the pony, therefore prayer is a waste of time. Hopefully we’ve made a little progress since that savory discussion. But just as a reminder, be assured that God always, always answers prayer. As we discussed earlier, He answers in one of three ways: yes, no, or not now. So if you think God hasn’t answered your prayer, it’s possible He just hasn’t answered it yet. Don’t believe me?

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.

—Luke 11:9-10

That promise came straight from Jesus. No ifs, ands, or buts (okay, maybe a couple “ands”); He simply lays it out. The Greek translation of these verbs makes the promise even more compelling. Written in present tense, they are more accurately translated as keep on asking, keep on seeking, and keep on knocking. What does that tell you? Don’t give up! Keep praying!

Look back a few verses. In Luke 11:5-8, Jesus tells a story to explain this concept.

Then he said to them, “Suppose one of you has a friend, and he goes to him at midnight and says, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread, because a friend of mine on a journey has come to me, and I have nothing to set before him.’ Then the one inside answers, ‘Don’t bother me. The door is already locked, and my children are with me in bed. I can’t get up and give you anything.’ I tell you, though he will not get up and give him the bread because he is his friend, yet because of the man’s persistence he will get up and give him as much as he needs.

Get the visual here. It’s midnight. Joe has unexpected company drop by. His fridge is empty, the cupboard is bare, so rather than wake Mrs. Joe (bless his heart), he rushes over to his neighbor’s house and starts knocking on the door. Nick the Neighbor yells from inside (in a Yiddish accent, no doubt), “Go away! It’s after midnight! They’re your company, you feed them! For crying out loud, we’re sleeping in here!” But Joe isn’t deterred. Have you ever had someone hold their finger on your doorbell? Annoying, isn’t it? That’s our Joe. No one had doorbells in those days, but he just kept knocking and knocking, making all kinds of racket. Nick may shout a few expletives at him, but eventually he gets up and opens the door. “All right! All right! I’m up! Oy vey! Enough with the noise, already!” He probably never stopped the whining, but good Neighbor Nick goes into his kitchen and gives his friend and neighbor as much food as he needs.

You’ve gotta love the guy’s persistence. And therein lies the lesson Jesus was trying to make. Keep on asking! Keep on seeking! Keep on knocking! Because God will answer your prayers. Every time? Always, always, always.

Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. —1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 (emphasis added)

Max Lucado is one of the best communicators of the gospel today. His gift to break down Bible passages in a way that makes them poignantly relevant is unmatched. Listen to his take on this matter of persistent prayer:

To knock is to stand at God’s door. To make yourself available. To climb the steps, cross the porch, stand at the doorway, and volunteer. Knocking goes beyond the realm of thinking and into the realm of acting. To knock is to ask, What can I do? How can I obey? Where can I go?1

Persistence is the key. But Jesus goes a step further, instructing us to pray boldly. Listen to this passage from Hebrews:

Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.

—Hebrews 4:14-16

Perhaps a little backstory is in order here for purposes of clarification. In Old Testament times, the high priest was the only person who could enter the Holy of Holies, which represented the place where God kept residence among His people. Behind a thick curtain, this most sacred place housed the Ark of the Covenant and other holy items. Once a year, the high priest would pull back this curtain and enter into the Holy of Holies, symbolically coming into the very presence of God to make atonement for the people. In this passage in Hebrews, Paul is referencing Jesus who is our High Priest. By His death and resurrection, Jesus provided for our atonement, in effect pulling back the sacred curtain to give each of us access into the very presence of God.

Coming back to our original question, if you sense that God has not answered a specific prayer yet, then stay on Him! Keep praying, keeping asking, and be bold with your prayers. But as you pray, don’t be like the bratty child who plugs his fingers in his ears because he doesn’t want to hear what his mommy and daddy are telling him. Sometimes God’s answer is no, whether we like it or not. Sometimes the answer is not yet, whether we like it or not. But as we mature in our faith, we learn to trust Him completely, even when we don’t like the answers He’s given us.

Which leads us to a very important question: How do we go on when God is silent?

Ever feel like your prayers are just bouncing off the ceiling? Frustrating, isn’t it? Remember those little super balls you could buy from vending machines? As a child, I used to love those things. You could bounce them to the moon and back. Well, almost. Sometimes it feels like we’re tossing our prayers up, and they’re bouncing off the ceiling like those super balls. They just keep coming back to us, no matter how many times we toss them up.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing even remotely funny about those times when God seems to be missing in action and silent. We’ve all been there. Times when we must hold on with every ounce of our strength and cling to His promises that He’ll never let go of us. If we truly believe He is who He says He is, then we must acknowledge His sovereignty and know within our heart of hearts that what He allows to happen to us always has a purpose. Even on the darkest night. Even when our souls cry out in unspeakable pain. Even when we can’t face another day. Even when we can’t sense His presence. We hold on because we know He’s holding on to us as well—whether it feels like it or not.

Nashville is known as Music City USA, home to both country music and contemporary Christian music. We’re proud of our musical heritage, and we like to think of our hometown celebrities as our own. So it was with a tremendous sense of sadness here in the Nashville area on a spring day in May of 2008 when we heard of the tragic death of little Maria Sue Chapman, the precious adopted daughter of Steven Curtis Chapman and his wife Mary Beth. The circumstances of her death only compounded the grief that washed across our city and the rest of the world. While backing out of their driveway, Maria’s eighteen-year-old brother, Will, never saw his little sister in the path of his vehicle. It seemed unthinkable. Unbearable. Such a horrible, freak accident. Why would God allow such a thing to happen? In the weeks and months that followed, the Chapman family’s testimony bore witness to their rock-solid belief that the anchor of their faith in God would hold.

But it didn’t stop their hearts from aching. After I heard about the Chapman’s tragedy, a song by Steven Curtis Chapman kept playing over and over in my head. It’s called “Sometimes He Comes in the Clouds.” The message of the song asks repeatedly why God seems so absent when we need Him most, but also reminds us that such times are often the only way our faith can grow. How? Because we must trust Him even when it seems as if He’s nowhere to be found.

Steven Curtis Chapman wrote that song back in 1995 for an album project that invited several Christian recording artists to put specific lessons from Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest to music. Chapman is a huge Oswald Chambers fan. Such an invitation was surely a labor of love for him. But never in a million years could he have imagined those lyrics he penned would one day be so excruciatingly personal.

We live in an imperfect world filled with imperfect people. Bad things happen to good people. Always have, always will. In 1996, a family friend of ours was bludgeoned to death by her husband of thirty-five years in their Austin, Texas, home. It happened more than a decade ago, long before names like Chandra Levy, Lacy Peterson, or Staci Peterson became familiar to us.

Then there are those other names we recognize—Adam Walsh, Polly Klass, Amber Hagerman (for whom the “Amber Alerts” were named), Elizabeth Smart, Madeline McCann . . .  senseless abductions of innocent children, most of them found murdered or never found at all. Or Natalee Holloway, who vanished while on a graduation trip in Aruba. Why would a loving God allow these kinds of things to happen?

Then there are the natural tragedies like the 2004 Indonesian Tsunami. Hurricane Katrina and her many siblings. Tornadoes that bulldoze entire towns off the map. Wildfires and earthquakes. The unbelievable devastation of the flood that occurred here in my hometown of Nashville, Tennessee in May of 2010.

And then those tragedies of the terrorist variety, like September 11, 2001.

On and on and on it goes. Tragedy will always be a part of life on earth. We may not understand why God allows such things to happen. But we have a choice. Either we can turn our backs on God, even blame Him for these unspeakable heartaches, or we can hold on. We can refuse to let go, even against all odds. Even when our faith is tested beyond our human abilities. Even when nothing makes sense any more. We can hold on because God is our only hope.

Remember when we talked about God’s perspective as if He’s way up high above our parade in His holy blimp? He’s got the better view of your life and mine. He sees it all—every bump and obstacle and detour along our life’s path. That’s why we can trust Him. That’s why we can believe His promise in Isaiah 41:10:

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

God tells us over and over, just hold on! I will provide a way for you! In the darkest night. At the end of all logic and reason. On the brink of utter despair . . . hold on!

The one concern of the devil is to keep Christians from praying. He fears nothing from prayerless studies, prayerless work, and prayerless religion. He laughs at our toil, mocks at our wisdom, but trembles when we pray.

—SAMUEL CHADWICK

I would be remiss if I spent this entire book talking up the blessings and benefits of prayer without also addressing the polar opposite— prayerlessness. In today’s culture, as Christians find themselves constantly ridiculed for their beliefs and practices, it’s not hard to connect the dots and understand why so few people actually pray. What’s especially sad is that Christians rarely communicate with others about how prayer impacts their daily lives. As if we think only the miraculous prayers are worthy of mention. If someone isn’t cured from cancer or a missing child isn’t returned safely home, we assume our prayers aren’t “big” enough to share with others.

Or perhaps you understand the nuts and bolts of prayer, but admit that this whole prayer thing just isn’t your style. The idea of spending time alone with God is just too weird for you, so you’ve decided you’ll take your chances and go it alone.

I’m truly sorry to hear that. I’ve clearly blown my opportunity on these pages to help you understand this amazing gift called prayer. I’m sorry because you’re missing out on one of the greatest blessings you’ll ever know.

But just so you know, you’re a walking lightning rod for trouble. Consider yourself warned.

A friend once told me about teaching a class at a Christian conference and retreat center. One day after class, one of her class members approached her. He introduced himself and said he was the pastor of a small church in another state. He explained that before he left home he told his congregation that upon his return, he was going to throw out everything they were doing as a church and start practicing some new methods of doing church. My friend was shocked to hear such a declaration. She asked him the first thing that came to her mind. “How are you praying about such drastic measures?” He quickly informed her—in these exact words—“Oh, I’m not much into prayer.”

What? I was flabbergasted when she told me that. How could a pastor, called by God to shepherd a group of believers, not pray? Naturally, I came up with all kinds of witty, sarcastic responses if he’d said such a thing to me. “Kinda full of yourself, aren’t you, Pastor No-Pray? Who made you God?” I still get rattled just thinking about the audacity of such a statement. A pastor who doesn’t pray? Please. Is it any wonder so many churches wither on the vine and have to close their doors because no one comes? Is it any wonder we’re so clueless about prayer if our church leaders don’t lead by example? Granted, he is just one pastor from one small church. But we all know of churches that are forever split and damaged by pastors who have strayed far from their calling. It’s a dangerous position to be in.

Prayerlessness. It’s a mouthful, but I have to admit the mere thought of it scares the bejeebies out of me. I wonder what a life totally void of prayer is like. It’s one thing to be an atheist who doesn’t believe in God, let alone prayer. It’s something else entirely to be a believer who doesn’t pray.

One of the best examples of prayerlessness I’ve come across is described in the book I mentioned earlier called Just Give Me Jesus by Anne Graham Lotz.1 She sets the scene for us. Jesus has just completed what would later be known as the Lord’s Supper with His disciples. He knows what is about to happen. He knows Judas will betray Him, leading the Roman soldiers to arrest Him. He knows He will be beaten and mocked and nailed to a cross where His physical body will die. Knowing all this, how does Jesus spend His last remaining hours on earth?

He prays.

He takes His disciples with Him to the garden, a place where He often prays. Once there, He tells his disciples to pray “that you may not enter into temptation.” I bet the disciples were perplexed at that instruction, don’t you? Then again, they were probably used to similar requests from Him. So Jesus leaves them there and goes just a little further where He kneels to pray one of the most heart wrenching prayers ever recorded.

“Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.” . . .  And being in agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat was like great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

—Luke 22:42, 44, ESV

Again, Christ knew what was about to transpire, so He readied himself by pouring out His heart before God.

The disciples? Sound asleep. Snoozing away just a few feet from the Lord. Finding them conked out, Jesus scolds them and tells them once again to pray. Can’t you see Him shaking His head, wondering why they can’t just do what He asked them to? A little while later, He returns and finds them snoring up a storm. Again.

But this time it’s too late. At that moment Judas arrives with soldiers and a crowd of priests and other accusers. Judas betrays Jesus with a kiss, selling the Son of God for thirty pieces of silver. But Jesus was prayed up. He didn’t fight them or try to make a run for it; He simply allowed it to happen because He knew it was all part of God’s will.

The disciples were a whole different story. Lotz puts it this way:

As the disciples, still rubbing sleep from their eyes, had grasped what was happening, they had abruptly reacted by scurrying in every direction.2

Well that’s just great, guys. You sleep on the job, then at the first sign of trouble, you run away like a bunch of wimps. All except for one, that is.

Peter, who had been sleeping when he should have been praying and therefore did not have a clue what the will of God was in this situation, charged the soldiers with his drawn sword. He swiped viciously at the nearest head but only managed to shave off the right ear of Malchus, servant to the high priest. What in the world was Peter doing? . . . Whatever he might have been thinking, the real reason for his rash behavior was prayerlessness.3

What a bonehead! What a sorry excuse for a disciple. And what a stupid thing to do when surrounded by a bunch of armed soldiers. Way to go, Peter. We’ll just call you King of the Knee Jerk. Guess you showed them, didn’t you?

With all the commotion, Jesus could have easily slipped away from the crowd and made the greatest escape in all of history. But that thought probably never crossed His mind. He immediately scolded Peter—again—shouting, “No more of this!” (Luke 22:51a). Then Jesus touched the ear of Malchus, and his ear was healed. I wonder what the angry, accusing crowd thought when they witnessed that miracle? Evidently they weren’t too impressed because they still demanded that Jesus be arrested. And, well, you know the rest of the story.

Back up a minute. Tell me something. Be honest. It felt good pointing fingers at those lazy disciples, didn’t it? They were the Chosen, hanging out with the Son of God, for crying out loud. And they couldn’t keep their eyes open, even for a little while, after the aforementioned Son of God told them to pray? What a bunch of losers. As for Peter? C’mon, admit it. You joined right in when I blasted him for that ridiculous stunt in the garden, cutting off that guy’s ear. Anyone with a lick of sense would know that wouldn’t help a thing, right?

But hold on. If we’re completely honest, don’t you and I pull some of those same stunts? Aren’t we just as guilty as those sleeping disciples? If we’re believers in Christ, we’ve been commanded to pray. Yet just how faithful are we about praying? We’ve already discussed the multitude of lame excuses we all use. Hey, I’m as guilty as anyone. I still fight this call to prayer as much as the next guy. I’ve ’fessed up about my struggle to stay focused in those few minutes I allot God each day. And yes—I, Diane Hale Moody, do hereby admit that I have been known to fall asleep while praying. It happens. I stand guilty before you.

There. I said it.

Now it’s your turn. Pull back that accusatory finger and take a good long look at yourself. Have you fallen asleep on the job like these disciples? Like me? Have you ignored the urgent call to pray, like these disciples, thereby sabotaging the spiritual preparation for whatever might lie ahead of you?

I’ve mentioned that my husband runs an Internet filtering company called Hedgebuilders. This service makes it possible to block pornographic sites on the Internet. Originally designed as a Christian filtering service, Hedgebuilders offers this service at cost for those in the ministry. In addition to its regular customers, these ministerial customers include churches, Christian schools, missionaries, pastors, ministers, and many more from all around the world. Rarely a day goes by that Ken doesn’t spend time counseling individuals—or their spouses—who are addicted to pornography. The anonymity of the Internet kicked down the last door for those people who would never think to go near an adult bookstore or browse the pages of Playboy. Now, with a few clicks, some of the most provocative pictures and videos are available to anyone who wants to find them, all in complete privacy.

Therein lies the problem. The Bible tells us the enemy prowls the earth “like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). What better target than those called as God’s messengers—pastors, Bible teachers, Christian school teachers, and the thousands of missionaries around the globe? You can almost hear the enemy whispering in their ears . . .

Go on. No one’s looking. You work hard. You deserve a little fun now and then. You’re not hurting anyone! What could possibly be wrong with gazing at the beauty of God’s creation? After all, God designed sexual desire, right? He formed those bodies, didn’t He? Go ahead. Your secret’s safe with me . . .

And so it begins. An addiction so powerful some of the most admired preachers of our time have admitted to its stronghold and the damage it has caused them in their ministry, their marriages, and their personal walk with the Lord.

But long, long ago Jesus showed us precisely how to handle the temptations we face in our lives.

He prayed.

After His baptism, Jesus spent forty days and forty nights in the desert fasting and praying. Satan watched and waited, giving those hunger pangs plenty of time to weaken Jesus. Then he approached the Son of God, tempting Him three different times. Each time, Jesus readily rebuked him, quoting scripture to put him in his place, until the enemy finally departed. Jesus withstood the enticements and lures of the evil one because He had prayed (Matthew 4).

Easy for Him, you say. After all, He is the Son of God. You’re exactly right. He is God’s Son. But He was both fully God and fully human. Meaning, He experienced physical hunger and loneliness and fatigue and heartache and every other human frailty. He experienced all those things and more. And in doing so, He exemplified how we too must handle the temptations we encounter in our lives.

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.

—1 Corinthians 10:13, ESV

He’s been there. He knows. And He’s provided for our every need. If only we’ll be obedient. If only we’ll stay on our knees before God, arming ourselves with His protection and His power and strength to withstand any temptation. If only we’ll heed His call to pray.

If only.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

—2 TIMOTHY 1:7, NKJV

If only we’ll heed His call to prayer. Sounds like a challenge, doesn’t it? As if someone has drawn a line in the sand and dared us to stick a big hairy toe over it. But have you ever wondered what this old world would be like if we actually heeded God’s call to prayer? Have you ever fully grasped the power of prayer we have at our disposal?

Ever hear of Dwight L. Moody? I’d love to tell you D. L. Moody is on some branch of my husband’s family tree, but alas, he is not. My father-in-law, Art Moody, sold shoes, as did Dwight when he was a young man, but that’s about as far as it goes. Regardless, I like to think of him as Uncle Dwight. Let me tell you about him.

Dwight Moody was a colorful nineteenth-century evangelist who rose from utter poverty to become one of the greatest preachers of the gospel of all times. He was founder of the Moody Bible Institute, Moody Church, and Moody Publishers in Chicago. I’ve always thought the story of Moody’s life would make a fascinating movie. By all measures, he was a just simple, ordinary man. But when this Massachusetts native was thirty-four years old, he visited Dublin, Ireland, where fellow evangelist Henry Varley said something he would never forget:

“Moody, the world has yet to see what God will do with a man fully consecrated to Him.” It is told that Moody mulled over the statement, repeating it to himself several times. Realizing that there was no requirement for such a man to be educated or scholarly, Moody finally responded, “Well, by the Holy Spirit in me, I’ll be that man!”1

He became the embodiment of an ordinary life used by God to do extraordinary things. Over 100 million people across two different continents would hear him preach. Thousands of lives would be forever changed by the message of salvation he preached. He reached downtrodden street kids and sailors in port, as well as the millionaires, royalty, and political leaders of his time. The message was the same to all: God loves you.

But those who knew him well often said he was a far greater pray-er than preacher. After Moody’s death in 1923, his closest friend, Dr. R. A. Torrey, was asked to speak at a memorial service for him. In that famous sermon, Torrey said, “He was a man who met every difficulty that stood in his way—by prayer. Everything he undertook was backed up by prayer, and in everything, his ultimate dependence was upon God.”2

Granted, you and I may never be the spiritual giant of faith that Moody was. But that same power is available to us today. Have you ever known someone whose heart was sold out to God, whose life was firmly rooted on their knees in prayer? Someone whose prayers made a significant difference in the lives of those around them?

With your permission, I’d like to tell you a very personal story. I lost my mother to colon cancer in April of 2007. She was eighty-two at the time of her death. We’ve always been a very close-knit family, so when she was first diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer, we were devastated. The cancer had already spread to her liver and stomach. My sister and I were shocked to learn that Mom and Dad’s beloved doctor had never once suggested they have a colonoscopy. How could there be such negligence when early detection through colonoscopy can often prevent cancer? But anger and heartache would never stop the disease that had already ravaged her body. Still, she was convinced she could beat it. At first, she was able to tolerate the chemotherapy. But the cumulative effects of the treatment soon took their toll. Hospice graciously stepped in to provide in-home care.

In what can only be called a divine appointment, my sister and I had made plans to visit Mom and Dad at home in Tulsa the week following Easter of that year. We’d made our flight reservations back in January thinking we’d go help our parents start packing for their upcoming move to Nashville where they’d be near us. The day we arrived at the house, the hospice aide had just given Mom a bath, and she was just coming out of her bedroom. It was a little startling to see her using a walker, but we were so pleased to see her up and about. She was on some pretty heavy pain medication, so we talked only briefly before she dozed off on the couch.

Little did we know that would be our last conversation with her. She slept around the clock for the next few days, not eating or drinking. By Friday night, she lapsed into a coma, her chest giving up what is called the death rattle—a sound I hope I never hear again. It was necessary to suction out her nose and mouth every twenty minutes or so, so we took turns staying by her side around the clock. We sang some of her favorite hymns and talked to her as if she could hear every word. One night when I was curled up in bed beside her, I began to tell her how much she meant to me and how much I loved her. We’d had so many wonderful memories together.

Then I remembered a time in my life that wasn’t so wonderful. A memory I hadn’t thought about in decades, but one that forever changed the course of my life. It was the year I’d graduated from college. After an emotionally rough summer, I moved to Memphis, Tennessee, where my sister lived. I’d been corresponding with my ex-boyfriend’s best friend (never, never a good idea—trust me on that). “Danny” was in the Navy stationed in Hawaii at the time.

Over the course of time we fell in love and got engaged. I should back up and tell you that at this point in my life, I’d strayed far, far away from the Lord. Which, of course, explains why I was so easily able to turn a blind eye to the numerous warning flags surrounding me. I was head over heels in love with the most romantic man I’d ever known. The wedding plans rushed full steam ahead—invitations printed, the date reserved at the church, wedding gown alterations complete, bridesmaids and groomsmen lined up. Danny would be deployed for six months not long after we married, but I felt confident I would enjoy being a Navy wife.

Then one Saturday morning, just a couple months before our wedding, I woke up and found a letter from Mom in my mailbox. I was surprised at how thick the letter was since we talked several times a week by phone. As I began to read Mom’s letter, something happened to me. It’s hard to put into words, but it was almost as if a window had just been opened, allowing a breeze of fresh air to wash over me. The blinders came off as the truth of my mother’s words penetrated my heart.

You see, my fiancé was not a believer. He was also an alcoholic, though I’d refused to admit it. And when I mentioned that he was the most romantic man I’d ever known, he came by it quite naturally, with a past that included a girl in every port, and then some. But I had convinced myself none of that mattered. He loved me and wanted to marry me, and that was enough.

It wasn’t Danny’s fault. It was completely mine. Danny was who he’d always been—my hilarious, fun-loving, handsome sailor who traveled the world. But I was not the person I’d always been. I’d turned my back on God, becoming someone far removed from the shy girl who’d grown up in church and given her life to Christ. What a mess I’d made of my life.

Mom wasn’t telling me not to marry him. She was reminding me who I was and the commitment I’d made giving my life to Christ so many years ago. She asked me hard questions about the life I would soon be leading as a Navy wife. She could have ranted at me and quoted a thousand scripture verses, but she didn’t. It wasn’t her way. Instead, she simply loved me enough to take an enormous risk. My father recently told me how hard it was for her to send me that letter. He said she wrestled with it for a long time, worrying that I might respond with anger at her intrusion, permanently damaging our relationship.

Dad also told me how fervently she prayed over that letter before she mailed it.

With tears streaming down my face as I read and reread the letter, I finally reached for the phone and called Mom. I sobbed and sobbed before I could finally thank her for helping me see the mistake I was about to make. I thanked her for loving me enough to take the risk she’d taken. In fact, that very day Dad put her on a plane to Memphis to spend some time with me. She prayed with me before I made the call to my sailor, calling off our wedding. She held me as I cried both tears of heartache and tears of relief.

The tender memories of that chapter in my life washed over me that late night as I talked to Mom, her physical life drawing ever closer to an end. I needed to make sure she knew how grateful I was that God had used her to draw me back to Him. I needed to tell her how thankful I was that God had blessed me with a mother who understood tough love. I needed to let her know how much I appreciated the depth of love she’d always given me through all of my life, even when I was quite unlovable. Two days later, on April 16, 2007, we said our good-byes as my mother passed from this life into the presence of her Lord and Savior.

So you see, I’m more than just a little passionate about the power of prayer. I’m living proof of it. My marriage is living proof of it. My children are living proof of it. The Bible tells us, “The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much” (James 5:16b, NKJV). The Message puts it this way: “The prayer of a person living right with God is something powerful to be reckoned with.” I can certainly vouch for that in my life. Can you?

Prayer changes things. But I think it’s actually much more than that. Listen to this quote from Oswald Chambers.

To say that “prayer changes things” is not as close to the truth as saying, “Prayer changes me and then I change things.” God has established things so that prayer, on the basis of redemption, changes the way a person looks at things.3

In other words, it’s not so much a matter of “things” being changed as it is a change in the way we perceive those things, then act upon them. Do you think you and I will ever fully embrace or understand that kind of prayer power? Will we ever take God at His word and tap into this kind of life-changing power?

If I were to draw that line in the sand and ask you to heed the call to prayer, would you? And if you did, what kind of changes would be possible in your life? In the lives of those around you? Is there anything holding you back from making a commitment to become serious about your prayer life? If there is, get on your knees. Right here, right now. Offer it up to God, asking Him to forgive you for letting it stand between you and Him. Then bare your soul before Him and ask Him to help you learn how to be a more serious and committed pray-er. Then get ready to see how He will transform your heart and change your life forever!

For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.

—ROMANS 7:15, ESV

Go ahead. Admit it. You thought this was going to be a boring book on a subject you were only partially interested in. You thought you’d read a few pages and that would be that. But if you’ve made it this far, I’m guessing that maybe—just maybe—something on these pages struck a chord with you. Maybe you started seeing Jesus sitting in your den, coffee in hand, waiting patiently to spend time with you. Maybe you found out prayer wasn’t so much about style as it was opening your heart and communicating with God. Maybe for the first time, you discovered a genuine hunger for something more in your relationship with God. Like making more time for Him in your oh-so-busy life. Or better yet, maybe you finally made the decision to move out of the pilot’s seat and let Him take over the controls of your life. Maybe you’ve begun to wonder what your life would look like if that really happened.

Remember when you were back in school and as class began your teacher would say those two dreaded words: pop quiz? Well, boys and girls, put away your notes, get out a clean sheet of paper, and let’s see how you’re doing. Second thought, don’t think of it as a test so much as a spiritual barometer to see what kind of progress you’ve made.

Caution: Be brave. I’m aiming right for the jugular with this one.

If someone told you to spend the next twenty-four hours in prayer, what’s your first response? Be honest now.

1.  I can’t. My schedule is booked solid from now until forever. No way.

2.  Noooooooo! Puhleeeeeez don’t make me! I’d lose my mind having to sit still for that long! Besides, I’m hypoglycemic. No can do.

3.  I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to get to the hospital. (Actually, what you’re feeling is nothing more than an intense inner-shuddering; but a heart attack sounds more serious, right?)

4.  Wow! That sounds amazing! I’ve always wanted to do something like that! Let me grab my Bible, and I’m good to go!

Think about answer #4. I imagine it something akin to a military wife whose soldier husband is headed home after eighteen months in the Middle East. The prospect of spending time with him for twenty-four uninterrupted hours thrills her heart. She’s excited and eager and filled with anticipation!

Okay, now put that back into the context of spending twenty-four hours alone with your Father, your Lord, your Savior. Are you excited and eager? Are you filled with anticipation of all that’s in store for you? Would you be surprised to learn that some people actually do that? Do you know some people have even spent forty days and forty nights in prayer and fasting? And not just preachers or pastors, regular people like you and me.

So I ask you once again. Is there even a trace of desire or yearning to block off twenty-four hours to spend with God? Good question. And whatever answer is milling about in your heart and head should give you some indication of where you are spiritually. That’s a lot to think about, isn’t it?

Another confession. One for the road, if you will. I love Sunday afternoons. It’s the one time all week I can veg without guilt and nap while blissfully claiming my official “day of rest.” That’s biblical, right? And once we get home from church and have lunch, I love to curl up on the sofa and watch hours of football, golf, baseball, or some old movies in the off-seasons. I look at that block of time—whether it’s three or four hours for a Titans’ game or five to six hours of the final round of PGA golf—as my very own kick-back-and-relax time. After a long week, I deserve it, right? And if I drift off for a snooze, even better. (Have I mentioned I love my Sunday afternoons?)

Now. Let me make that pop quiz more personal. If I sensed God nudging me to give up my leisurely Sunday afternoons and spend them in prayer with Him, would I? If He asked me to give those long glorious hours of R&R over to Him for prayer, would I willingly submit to His request? Is there any way I’d actually be happy to do that?

No. I’m cringing here because I hate to admit it to you after all we’ve been through on these pages, but no. In my heart of hearts, I know I’d do it but with a serious grudge. If I did it at all.

Oh, I might not hesitate to block off a twenty-four-hour chunk of time to pray—if the price tag said “one time only.” But once a year? Once a month? I dunno. Maybe . . .

They say confession is good for the soul, but the reality is, it sickens me to admit this is where I am. After all I’ve learned and all He’s taught me . . . apparently I’m still greedy about my precious time. Apparently my spiritual barometer still needs a lot of work.

Still, if you and I are at least willing to start examining our hearts about these matters, we’re surely making progress. The challenge is to move beyond retrospection and do something about it. Amen?

There’s so much more to learn about prayer. We’ve barely scratched the surface here, folks. That was intentional on my part because I made a conscious effort to focus on two specific things: (1) learning what prayer is and isn’t, and (2) learning how to establish a routine, daily prayer time.

Bottom line, I can tell you this (now that you bought my book and read it)—none of it matters. Not the methods, not the verses, not the list of reasons for praying, not the clever and quirky chats we’ve had—none of it. That’s because the only thing that matters is this: that you pray. Every. Single. Day. Focused and fully concentrating on your relationship with God through prayerful communication.

I have to be honest. A funny thing happens whenever you try to tackle a subject like this, to inform or inspire “others.” In the end you quickly discover the vastness of your subject, and you’re immediately humbled by how much you don’t know about it. That s certainly been the case for me as I’ve shared some of my own experiences with you. But I’ll make a few final confessions, like this one—and I’m utterly embarrassed to tell you. While burning up my keyboard, pontificating about my own prayer journey, I’ve found myself struggling to follow my own advice. Days slipped by before I realized I’d actually skipped my morning prayer times. I’d raced right past my Jesus as He sat in that study, his coffee grown cold.

Am I a hypocrite or what?

And once again, I’m saddened to discover I’m still not the prayer warrior I want to be. Not even close.

Then there are the days I’ve kept my morning coffee time with Jesus; but if I’m honest, I’ve done nothing more than go through the motions. I’ve read some scripture, raced through my prayer journal, and patted myself on the back for being so disciplined. But nothing penetrated my mind, much less my heart. It’s that pesky auto-pilot habit we talked about.

But today’s stupid blooper takes the cake, the cupcake, the coffee cake, and every other kind of cake in the bakery. At least for me. Oh, I kept my divine appointment this time. But just as I finished reading a scripture passage and started working my way through my prayer journal, I happened to glance over at my cell phone on the end table beside me . . .

I’m really tired of my ringtone. I still love the theme from Braveheart, but it’s getting old. I should download a new one. Hmm. What would be a good song? How about “Brand New Day” by Sting? Or maybe a Big Band tune? Wait, maybe some Billy Joel or that new song by Keith Urban . . .

At that point, I dropped my head in resignation. Oh no. Not again.

Don’t roll your eyes. I know it may sound silly to you to stress over something so trivial. But at this point in my prayer journey, I should be way, way past this kind of thing by now. Will I never learn? Here I am—an aspiring author working on a book about prayer—so easily and outright distracted, so easily lured away from my oh-so meaningful prayer life by nothing more than a simple glance at my cell phone. Good grief! I’m no different than that bored little freckle-faced mini-me at Camp Nunny Cha-Ha so many years ago— unable to keep focus and pray. Unable to do any of those things I’ve been writing about for months. Will I ever conquer these distractions? Why can’t I just do as I say? Why can’t I stay focused for even a lousy twenty minutes? Have I made no headway at all after all these years?

Oh no. Here it comes again. Prayer guilt.

If someone gave out awards for this particular accomplishment, I’d surely be basking in the glory of red carpet praise. I’d make my way to the stage when my name was announced as the All-Time Queen of Prayer Guilt. Got the tiara, got the trophy, got the guilt.

Call me a drama queen, but you get the point. Then, while I’m busily slapping a Prayer Slacker sticker on my worn and tattered guilt-trip suitcase, I start thinking about David. You know, the one from the Old Testament. The shepherd who became a king. But David was hardly a saint. Among his many virtues, he was also a peeping Tom, an adulterer, a murderer, a schemer, and a sorry excuse for a father. Yet God referred to David as “a man after [my] own heart” (1 Samuel 13:14). Doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean, those were big sins David committed.

Isn’t it odd how we label those “big sins” to cover things like murder, adultery, child abuse, kidnapping, terrorism, arson, Ponzy scheming, and the like? It’s as if we play a game called “My Sin vs. Your Sin.” My little white lie to my friend is way better than you stealing a fiver out of someone’s purse. My “creative” bookkeeping is nowhere near as bad as you cheating on your husband. And on and on it goes. We start to feel rather smug about our little sins in light of someone else’s mega-sins. It’s actually kind of sick to think of it in those terms—having pride about the fact that I’m not as bad a sinner as you. Oh, the twists and turns of human logic.

But it completely messes with our minds to think that God views all sins equally. A sin is a sin is a sin in His eyes. And the fact remains, we all sin. But we’re children of a loving Father who yearns to forgive us if only we’ll come clean and confess those sins, big or small. In other words, He loves me even when I forget to pray. He loves me even when I just go through the motions. And He loves me even when I screw up royally like David did.

Having kids is a sure-fire way to learn about the full depth of forgiveness. We may hate some of the choices they make. We may grieve over the idiotic, repetitive mistakes they make and the resulting consequences they must face. But we still love them. No matter what, we still love them. Now take that unconditional love you feel for your kids and multiply it by a couple trillion. That still doesn’t come close to the love God has for us. Even when we screw up.

So, hey, maybe one of the reasons I’ve continued to blow it in my own prayer life is so that you can learn from my pathetic mistakes. Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.

But wait—there’s more! (Channeling the late Billy Mays here.) There’s another potential danger lurking around us if we actually follow through and keep our daily appointment with God. It creeps up when we least expect it. We’re cruising along, day after day, faithfully making time for God in our routine, feeling all warm and fuzzy about ourselves . . . then BAM! That’s when it happens.

Your god may be your little Christian habit—the habit of prayer or Bible reading at certain times of your day. Watch how your Father will upset your schedule if you begin to worship your habit instead of what the habit symbolizes. We say, “I can’t do that right now; this is my time alone with God.” No, this is your time alone with your habit.1

Ouch?! That’s another one from Oswald Chambers. Ol’ Ozzie doesn’t mince words, does he? I don’t know about you, but that one felt like I just had my knuckles whacked by a nun with a ruler. Which is particularly strange since I never went to Catholic school.

But Oswald is right. It’s so very easy to fall into this trap of worshiping our habit of praying. It’s that stupid pride monster rearing its ugly head yet again. My pastor once said “I stink at prayer because I’m so good at pride.”2 Pete, I think most of us are in same boat with you on that one. In fact, that boat’s starting to sink because so many of us are crowded on it with you!

Professor and author Dr. Calvin Miller writes this word of caution: “Remember anything more important than God to you, is god to you.3

Whoa. Think about that one for a moment. It holds all kinds of implications, doesn’t it? See, the minute you and I begin to think we’ve learned all there is to know about this or that, and fancy ourselves as some self-proclaimed authority on the subject, we’re doomed. Especially in matters of faith. There is only one Authority, and His name is Jehovah. Our God. Our Lord Jesus Christ. Our Heavenly Father. The rest of us will never fully get it until we meet Him face to face. And, oh, what a moment that will be!

In the meantime, we do our best to live our lives to honor Him. And there’s no better way to do that than spending time with Him. Every single day. Not as some kind of robotrons, programmed to meet a set schedule. But as children of God, who hunger to spend time with Him, opening our hearts to Him.

By now you know I’m not perfect. But neither are you, my friend. In fact, I’ll bet the reason this book interested you was because the title touched a nerve. Am I right? If so, you’re probably a confessed (or as yet un-confessed) slacker just like me. We’ve both failed time and time again. And guess what? We’ll continue to fail time and time again. So what can we do about that? You need to learn as I have learned that each day is a new day, a new beginning with a clean slate. Repeat that out loud with me.

Each day is a new day,

a new beginning with a clean slate.

If your memory struggles like mine, you might want to write that across the inside of your prayer journal or print it and tape it to the edge of your computer screen. Anyplace where you’ll see it daily. We need to remind ourselves of that fact every morning as we wake. If we fall into slackerdom for a day or two or three, we just need to try harder today. Then tomorrow. And every tomorrow to follow.

If you’ll allow me one final personal note, I want to bring my journey full circle for you. To do so, I need to share a verse with you that always gives me a thrill when I read it. Let me set the scene for you. Early in Jesus’ ministry, He began calling His first disciples. One day, He was standing by a lake when a large crowd started pressing in all around Him. They’d heard of His miracles and were anxious to hear more. He saw two boats anchored nearby, but the fishermen were away from them, washing out their nets onshore. So Jesus climbed into one of the boats and told the fisherman named Simon (we know him later as Peter), to put out a little from the shore. Simon obliged, then Jesus sat down and began to teach the people from the boat.

When He finished, He told Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch” (Luke 5:4). Simon answers, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything.” Now, knowing what we know from later accounts about Simon/Peter (aka Mr. Knee Jerk), can’t you just imagine the body language that accompanied his response? Remember, at this point he has no idea who this man is who’s telling him what to do. He’s exhausted and frustrated after fishing all night and not catching a thing. No doubt he rolls his eyes and throws his shoulders back, posturing at the audacity of such a suggestion, maybe snapping his neck to one side then the other with irritation. Who does this guy think he is, telling me how to fish?!

Still, in the last half of that verse, we’re told Simon added, “But because you say so, I will let down the nets.” What? Why would a tough guy like Simon cave so quickly to a complete stranger? We’re not told, but somehow I like to think it was something he saw in Jesus’ eyes. Someone once said the eyes are windows to the soul. And don’t you know Jesus had the most captivating, beautiful eyes ever given to a human? Don’t you know the immense depth of His love shone through those amazing eyes to everyone He met? Which could possibly explain why Simon so quickly acquiesced and did as he was told. Look what happened:

When they had done so, they caught such a large number of fish that their nets began to break. So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them, and they came and filled both boats so full that they began to sink.

—Luke 5:6-7

For me, the nugget of truth that speaks to my heart in this passage is this: if only I’ll go deeper in my trust and faith in Him, the more wonders I’ll behold in my life—things so far beyond my imagination, I can barely comprehend.

And that has been exactly what has happened. The book you now hold in your hands is evidence of that. I had struggled for years trying to get published. I kept writing novels and wondering why on earth no one was interested in publishing them. One of them, which I wrote in installments on a website, registered more than 67,000 readers and flooded my inbox with more than 1,000 positive e-mails! Still, nothing. An entire decade flew by as I banged my head against my desk, frustrated that my dream wasn’t happening.

That was until God finally got my attention. I shared that story with you in the first chapters of this book. Slowly, as I began making time to spend with Him each morning, I realized how much I’d been missing. He had so much to say to me! Why had I never stopped and listened before? Weeks turned into months, months into years, until the time I spent with Him each morning became a daily habit, one that I looked forward to and rarely missed. And in the process, I began to sense God was nudging me about this whole prayer journey I’d been on. I started making notes during my prayer times, writing down verses that God seemed to be showing me and excerpts from books I was reading along the way. At the same time, I was meeting new Christians who had no idea how to have a prayer life with God.

And that’s when I knew: God was calling me to write for Him. He wanted me to share my story. He wanted me to use the gifts He’d given me—this undying passion for writing, and maybe even the quirky way I visualize situations in my mind—to help others discover the joy and blessings that await them if only they’d make time for Him too. So I started writing. And the words and ideas and examples and scripture verses literally flooded my mind, almost to the point I could barely keep up on my keyboard.

I’m here to tell you I felt like I was the living embodiment of that verse in Luke 5:4. God had told me to go deep when He drew me to Himself, teaching me how to have a prayer life with Him, and now He was overwhelming me with blessings in ways I could never have imagined.

So I have to ask. What will it take for you to go deep with God? All those silly excuses aside, what’s stopping you?

I know you’ll be shocked that I’m finally going to wrap this up and leave the rest to you. I thank you for taking time to read about my prayer journey. I’m flattered—dare I say, shocked— that you picked my book off the shelf when there are so many other authors far more qualified from which to choose.

No wait. I take that back. There may be hundreds of authors more qualified on the subject of prayer, but concerning prayer slackerdom? No way. I’m it. Self-proclaimed with mountains of guilt to show for it. Although, thankfully, I have a Father who graciously forgives me for all my stupid blunders along the way, wiping my slate clean whenever I come to Him in humble apology. He offers you the exact same forgiveness. It’s there for the taking.

I hope in some small way, you’ve been challenged enough to start on a prayer journey of your own. I pray that you’ll accept the challenge and find out for yourself what a difference daily personal prayer can make in your life. I guarantee you’ll never be the same. You have my word on that.

Call to Me, and I will answer you,

and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know.

—Jeremiah 33:3, NKJV

_____________

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of the novella Tea with Emma after the Author’s page.

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Introduction

1. Have you ever had a Come-to-Jesus moment in your life? If so, what was the unique path that led you to Him? If not, have you ever experienced that tug in your heart and wondered what it was?

2. When was the last time you had a consistent prayer life? How long did it last? Why do you think you succeeded?

3. If it’s no longer a part of your life, why is that?

Chapter 1—My Personal Prayer Journey

1. What is your earliest memory concerning prayer?

2. When did you first learn about having a personal prayer life?

Chapter 2—My Journey Continues

1. Have you ever shaken your fist at God?

2. In Fresh Brewed Life, Nicole Johnson talks about spectator living. Are you living as a spectator? What dreams are you ignoring so you won’t face disappointment?

Chapter 3—Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

1. Which of the Top 10 Excuses hit closest to home for you?

2. Have you ever fully comprehended that God made you because He wants to have a relationship with you? Does that change how you regard His intimate love for you?

Chapter 4—More Excuses?

1. Did a seemingly unanswered prayer ever affect your love for God?

2. Have you ever shunned God because your M&Ms didn’t drop down in the vending machine after you deposited your coins (translation: prayed)?

3. Be honest. Are you lazy when it comes to God?

Chapter 5—Our #1 Excuse for Not Praying

1. Are you too busy for God?

2. What does discipline look like in your relationship with God?

3. So, on average, how many hours a day do you watch TV? Hmm? (Don’t forget to include those morning news programs.)

Chapter 6—Just How Badly Do You Want It?

1. Well, then, just how badly do you want it?

2. Like Briana in the skit, do you routinely exclude God from your life and your activities? How so?

3. Are you sincerely willing for God to do heart surgery on you? If not, what’s stopping you?

Chapter 7—Getting Started

1. Try to visualize Jesus waiting for you to spend time with Him each day. Where is He? In your home? Outdoors? In your office? Does that visualization help remind you to pray?

2. When is the best time of day for you to meet with God?

Chapter 8—Gotta-Haves

1. When was the last time you read a Bible?

2. Do you have a readable translation?

3. How would you set up your prayer journal to make the most of your prayer time?

Chapter 9—Getting to Know Your God

1. Did you learn anything new about God by studying some of the names of God?

2. If you had to pick one of the names we discussed, which one has the most significance to you at this point in your life? Why?

3. Can you think of a specific situation in which you saw God’s provision, exemplifying His name of Jehoval-Jireh—The Lord Will Provide?

Chapter 10—God’s Love Letter to You

1. What does abiding in Christ look like in your own life?

2. In your spiritual walk with Christ, are you a:

• babe in spiritual diapers, still sucking on a pacifier?

• toddler, still crawling around with no direction, still sucking your thumb?

• adolescent, focused completely on having fun?

• teenager, consumed with yourself and little else?

• adult, maturing in your faith and hungering after God?

3. What has prevented you from studying the Bible up until now?

4. What’s your favorite book in the Bible? Don’t have one? Ready to find one?

Chapter 11—In Search of Your “Want-To”

1. After reading the excerpt from Psalm 139, what did you learn about God’s love for you?

2. How can we recalibrate our thinking to stop expecting God to join our team and instead focus on joining His team when we pray?

Chapter 12—The Lord’s Prayer 101

1. Okay, be honest. Have you ever really prayed the Lord’s Prayer? Or do you just repeat memorized words when you say it?

2. If you could see your prayers in print, would they be hastily written chicken-scratch shorthand? Or are they carefully written from the heart?

Chapter 13—When God Is Silent

1. When God seems silent, how long is your grace period toward Him before your patience runs out?

2. In the face of unspeakable tragedy, would your faith hold on? Will you cling to God’s promises, able to “trust His heart” even when you can’t “trace His hand?”

Chapter 14—Prayerlessness

1. Were you appalled to read about that preacher who admitted he’s not much into prayer? But are you equally appalled at your own lack of prayer? (Lose the guilt. Answer the question.) If not, why not?

2. Are you like Peter and the other disciples who fell asleep on the job instead of praying? Why is it we have so much trouble making prayer a priority?

Chapter 15—The Power of Prayer

1. Are you willing to heed the call to prayer with your heart, mind, and soul?

2. What’s keeping you from selling out to God?

3. Do you have any secret dreams you’ve long neglected because you were too afraid to even pray about them?

Chapter 16—Final Confessions from My Slacker’s Heart

1. How’d you do on that pop quiz? So, what if God actually did ask you to spend twenty-four hours with Him? Or eight hours? Or two? Be honest. Would you freak out?

2. I told you how much I cherish my Sunday afternoons. How about you? Is there something you would not willingly give up if He asked you to?

3. Do you fully comprehend the level of forgiveness God offers you whenever you screw up? Are you willing to accept His forgiveness?

Final Question:

After reading this book, are you ready to commit to God to spend time with Him each day? More important, will you?

If there has never been a time when you invited Jesus into your life to be your Lord and Savior, I would be honored to tell you how. It’s really very simple, but you need to know it’s a very serious commitment. That means you need to open your heart and come clean before God. But don’t worry. He already knows every inch of your heart. He just wants you to be willing to give it to Him completely.

It’s important to know that God created us for one purpose: to have a loving relationship with Him. Most of us want to be our own boss because we grow up thinking the world revolves around us. But there can be only one boss, and that is God. In Romans 3:23 we’re told that we’ve all sinned. All of us. That means you and me. And as long as there is sin in our lives, we’re separated from God.

But God had a plan. He made a way for us to bridge that gap by giving us His Son Jesus Christ. Romans 6:23 says, “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

So how do I follow His plan?

1.  First, I admit that God has not been Lord of my life, and then confess my sins. He has promised to forgive us: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness”

(1 John 1:9).

2.  I acknowledge that Jesus died to pay for my sins. “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

3.  I receive God’s free gift of salvation. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast” (Ephesians 2:8-9).

4.  Finally, I invite Jesus to be the Lord of my life. “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved” (Romans 10:13).

Commitment to Christ is a personal decision you have to make. It’s not something decided for you by your parents or family or friends. It’s just between you and God. If you believe that you are ready to make this most important decision you’ll ever make—to invite Jesus into your heart to be your Lord and Savior—then all you need to do is pray this simple prayer.

Dear Lord Jesus,

Thank you for loving me even when I was unlovable and ignored You. I realize now how much I need You in my life. I know that I am a sinner, and I’m sorry for the things I’ve done that I shouldn’t have. As best I know how, I ask for Your forgiveness. Please come into my heart and cleanse my life. I believe that You died on the cross and rose from the grave to give me life. I know You are the only way to God. In this moment, I give my life to You and ask You to help me live a life that honors You. Amen

Congratulations! Did you know that all of heaven is rejoicing in your decision to become a child of God? That means there’s a party going on in your honor right now! Let me be the first to welcome you to the family of God, my friend. And this is just the beginning! It’s so important to learn more about the Lord you have just committed your life to, and the best way to do that is to find a Bible-believing church where you can study His Word and surround yourself with others in the family of God. Don’t be afraid to shop around until you find a congregation that is sold out to Christ. Then get involved and start your journey in a fellowship of believers living for Christ!

Now, do me one more favor. If you made this most important life decision, would you let me know? You can write me at dhmoody@gmail.com.

I can honestly say this book is the direct result of some holy nudging on the part of God. Over and over, He showed me why I needed to share my story, to the point I finally tossed aside the novel I was writing and began to write what He had put on my heart. For any life that may be touched by these pages, I give Him all the glory.

To Fred and Cathy Weisbrodt and Rick and Beth Herrin, thank you for your friendship and asking the tough questions along the way. We love doing community with you!

To my pastor, Pete Wilson, thank you for inspiring not only me and our entire church family at Nashville’s Cross Point Community Church, but also thousands more throughout “the uttermost parts of the earth” through your blog and always-colorful tweets. Thank you for always being the real deal. And for the record, it’s obviously not in your DNA to be bland or boring. You’re the best.

To Joy DeKok who helped get the first version of this book into print. Thank you for your encouragement and inspiration through these last couple of years. How I thank God for you!

To my daughter Hannah who designed the original cover and gave it such a beautiful exterior. We weren’t allowed to use it this time around, but I’ll never forget the passion and talent that went into that design. I hope you like the new one . . . I love you, sweetie!

To my son, Ben, thanks for believing in me and showing me by example how passion for something can propel you to accomplish your goals in life—whether it’s on the golf course or in the pages of a book. I love you, buddy!

To my YaYa’s—Debbie Church, Carol McFarland, and Teresa Nardozzi—thank you for being my own personal cheerleaders along the way and reminding me to never, never give up. Love you, Sistahs!

To my real-life sister, Morlee Maynard, thank you for being my lifelong friend and ever-faithful sounding board. Do you know what a hero you are to me?

To Glenn and Anita Hale, my precious parents who raised me on a solid foundation of faith and taught me the true meaning of unconditional love. How I miss you, Mom.

Every writer needs a buddy in the trenches, and I’m thankful beyond words for Sally Wilson. Sally, thanks for your wonderful friendship, honest critiques, hilarious sense of humor, and all our coffee breaks at the Red Tree in Kingston Springs. I thank God for crossing our paths in Houston so many years ago. Who knew a name tag at a writer’s conference could spark such a cherished friendship?

And last but not least, I dedicate this book to Ken—my husband, my best friend, and the love of my life. Thank you for not only believing in me and helping me to see this dream come true; but more important, for your quiet and humble example as a godly man who begins and ends each day on his knees in prayer. How I love doing life with you!

Introduction

1. Whittaker Chambers, Witness (Washington, D.C.: Regnery Publishing, Inc., 1978), 16-17. All rights reserved. Reprinted by special permission of Regnery Publishing, Inc., Washington, D.C.

Chapter 2—My Journey Continues

1. Reprinted by permission. Fresh-Brewed Life: A Stirring Invitation to Wake Up Your Soul, Nicole Johnson, ©1999, Thomas Nelson, Inc. Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Page 38.

2. Ibid., 41.

3. Ibid., 48.

Chapter 3—Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

1. Reprinted by permission. Just Give Me Jesus, Anne Graham Lotz, ©2000, Thomas Nelson, Inc. Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Page 10.

Chapter 4—More Excuses?

1. Taken from My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers, edited by James Reimann, ©1992 by Oswald Chambers Publications Assn., Ltd., and used by permission of Discovery House Publishers, Grand Rapids Mich. 4950l. All rights reserved. August 4 entry.

2. Quote from Syncing Through Prayer, sermon by Pastor Pete Wilson, Cross Point Community Church, Nashville, Tenn.; July 2008.

3. Ibid.

4. Ibid.

5. Chambers, My Utmost, August 6.

Chapter 5—Our #1 Excuse for Not Praying

1. Reprinted by permission. Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller, ©2003, Thomas Nelson Inc. Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Page 13.

2. Reprinted by permission. Second Calling: Finding Passion and Purpose for the Rest of Your Life, Dale Hanson Bourke, ©2006, Thomas Nelson, Inc. Nashville, Tennessee. All rights reserved. Page 53.

3. John Kirk, The Mother of the Wesleys: A Biography (London: Henry James Tresidder, 1864), 186.

4. Chrysalis Blog. Spotlight on Mom: Susannah Wesley, February 1, 2007 http://chrysaliscom.blogspot.com/2007/02/spotlight-on-mom-Susannahh-wesley.html  Reprinted by permission.

5. Eliza Clarke, Susannah Wesley (London: W. H. Allen & Co., 1886), 68.

Chapter 6—Just How Badly Do You Want It?

1. Summarization of “The Visitor,” a drama written by John Alexander, from DramaShare.org, ©1998. Used by permission.

2. Lotz, Just Give Me Jesus, 63-64.

Chapter 7—Getting Started

1. Lotz, Just Give Me Jesus, 95.

2. Copied by Stephen Ross for www.wholesomewords.org from The Advanced Guard of Missions by Clifford G. Howell. (Mountain View, Calif: Pacific Press Publishing, 1912). Used by permission.

Chapter 9—Getting to Know Your God

1. Oswald Chambers, My Utmost, August 28.

2. Kay Arthur, Lord, I Want to Know You (Portland, Ore.: Multnomah, 1992), p. 13. Reprinted with permission from Precept Ministries International.

Chapter 10—God’s Love Letter to You

1. Reprinted with permission. The New Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible, James Strong, ©1990, Thomas Nelson, Inc. Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Page 3; accompanying definition found in Greek Dictionary, p. 47.

2. Kay Arthur, Lord, Teach Me to Pray in 28 Days (Chattanooga: Precept Ministries International, 1982), 16. Reprinted with permission.

Chapter 11—In Search of Your “Want-To”

1. Tom Rogeberg, “Tim Tebow: Born to Lead,” Sharing the Victory (Fellowship   of Christian Athletes), August-September 2009, p. 10. Used by permission.

Chapter 13—When God is Silent

1. Reprinted by Permission. Life Lessons with Max Lucado, Book of Acts, Max Lucado, ©2006, Thomas Nelson, Inc. Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Page vi.

Chapter 14—Prayerlessness

1. Lotz, Just Give Me Jesus, 230-35.

2. Ibid., 234.

3. Ibid., 234-35.

Chapter 15—The Power of Prayer

1. Extracted from D. L. Moody: Moody Without Sankey, by John Pollock, in the Foreward by Luis Palau (Scotland, UK: Christian Focus Publications, www.christianfocus.com, ©1995). Used with permission.

2. Dr. R. A. Torrey, Why God Used D. L. Moody, a sermon, 1923. Copyright held by Sword of the Lord Publishers, Murfreesboro, Tenn. Used by permission.

3. Chambers, My Utmost, August 28.

Chapter 16—Final Confessions from My Slacker’s Heart

1. Chambers, My Utmost, May 12.

2. Quote from Pray Continuously, sermon by Pastor Pete Wilson, Cross Point Community Church, Nashville, Tenn.; March 29, 2009.

3. Reprinted by permission. Peace, A Fruit of the Spirit Study Guide, Calvin Miller, ©2008, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Page 38.

About the Author

Born in Texas and raised in Oklahoma, Diane Hale Moody is a graduate of Oklahoma State University. She lives with her husband Ken in the rolling hills just outside of Nashville. They are the proud parents of two grown and extraordinary children, Hannah and Ben.

Just after moving to Tennessee in 1999, Diane felt the tug of a long-neglected passion to write again. Since then, she's written a column for her local newspaper, feature articles for various magazines and curriculum, and several novels with a dozen more stories eagerly vying for her attention.

When she's not reading or writing, Diane enjoys an eclectic taste in music and movies, great coffee, the company of good friends, and the adoration of a peculiar little pooch named Darby.

Visit Diane's website at dianemoody.net and her blog, "just sayin'" at dianemoody.blogspot.com

Don’t miss a sampling of recipes

from The Chawton Tea Room

located in the back of the book!

Cover design by OBT Graphix

Front cover photo: © Angela Ostafichuk | Dreamstime.com

Front cover photo: © Petar Neychev | Dreamstime.com

Front cover photo: © Christopher Nuzzaco | Dreamstime.com

Interior teapot image: © Aerobaby | Dreamstime.com

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Tea with Emma | Book One of the Teacup Novellas

Diane Moody

Copyright © Diane Moody 2011

Published by OBT Bookz

Tea with Emma – (Book One)

Strike the Match – (Book Two)

Home to Walnut Ridge – (Book Three)

At Legend’s End – (Book Four)

The Teacup Novellas

Book One

Diane Moody

“It’s such happiness when good people get together—

and they always do.”

—from Jane Austen’s Emma

Many are the plans in a man’s heart,

but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.

Proverbs 19: 21

Prologue

Another interruption. Great. Just great.

“Can’t a body get five stinkin’ minutes without a phone call or someone knocking at the stupid door?” I muttered, my teeth clenched. “Hold your shorts. I’m coming!”

I shoved my office chair back from my cluttered desk, avoiding eye contact with the calendar hanging above my mess. September lurked a few pages back, breathing down my neck. Only three months to go and not a chapter written. If Samantha made one more inference about “writer’s block” in that graveled editor’s voice of hers, I would throw my keyboard at her in a New York minute. Never mind that she was 3000 miles away in the aforementioned Big Apple.

I quickly finger-combed my wild hair before throwing open the front door. “Hey, Mark,” I greeted, sounding much more cheerful than I felt. “Sorry it took me so long.”

“No problem, Lucy. Buried in another novel?” My UPS guy smiled as he keyed in something on the big scanner gadget in his hands. I noticed a medium-sized box resting on the weathered bench beside my front door.

“I wish. Can’t seem to get this one off the ground.” I signed the gadget using the special pen he handed me. Samantha was a stickler for receipts, insisting on delivery confirmation, so I was used to this little ritual. Except I noticed this one wasn’t from her. It was from my dad.

I glanced up just in time to find Mark staring at me. His eyes quickly darted back to the scanner as I passed it back to him. Normally I looked forward to his deliveries. Even though his visits were brief, in typical UPS oh-so-rushed fashion, he’d always been friendly. Always asked about the books he delivered fresh from my publishing house. Once, when he was ahead of schedule, he even sat down on my wicker porch chair and waited while I opened a box of my newest release, an Australian romantic comedy. I signed one for him to send to his sister who was living in Sydney at the time.

Did I mention he’s also a dead ringer for that guy who played Sawyer on LOST? Yeah. That guy.

“Working on another sappy love story?”

Our running joke. He assumed I wrote strictly romance. Probably a sexist remark, but I always gave him a pass on it. Getting lost in those killer dimples for a couple minutes seemed like a fair trade-off.

Most of the time, that is. Today? Not so much. I felt irritable and tired, and I needed to get back to work. So I played along. “Yeah, nothing but sap. All that yucky, mushy stuff. You know—hey, how are you, I think I love you, will you marry me, happily ever after stuff. Same old, same old.”

He lifted the box easily and handed it to me. “Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. Sometimes that yucky, mushy stuff can be good medicine.” He tossed me a wink as he turned to go.

“I’ll remember that. Have a good one, Mark.” I couldn’t help but notice the tanned muscular calves as he sprinted down the driveway. Gotta love the warm summer months when the UPS guys wear those manly brown shorts . . .

“You too, Lucy. Happy writing!”

The box felt surprisingly light. As I made my way back in the house, I admired Dad’s perfect handwriting. Normally I didn’t have to sign for anything from him, so I was intrigued. Dad, what are you up to now?

I’d missed his call the other night and only now realized I’d never listened to my voice mail or called him back. When he called, I’d been in the midst of another Migraine Hell, third time this week, and chose to keep the pillow over my head rather than be sociable. He was always a good sport.

“Gertie, whatcha think?” I asked my Scottie as I set the box on the kitchen table. She wagged her tail vigorously, cocking her head to one side to study the mysterious box. “What would Dad be sending us? Another weather radio to protect us from the storms?” I grabbed some scissors out of the kitchen drawer and snipped the packaging tape. “Another deadbolt for our back door?” Gertie barked. I scratched behind her left ear. “I’ll take that as a no. Hmm, perhaps a case of Mace to carry on my next trip to New York?” Two barks. She knows him well.

With the tape sliced, I opened the box, pawing through an enormous supply of Styrofoam popcorn. “Good grief, Dad. What could possibly need this much packing?”

My hands searched through mounds of the white stuff until I touched something wrapped in tissue paper. I pulled it out, knowing immediately what it was.

Tears stung my eyes. For a moment, I had trouble finding my next breath. I blinked away the moisture blurring my vision and unwrapped the many layers of tissue. A delicate bone china teacup, with tiny hand-painted flowers in rose and amber resting against airy green fronds. Ornate oval frames scrolled in gold surrounded each small cluster of flowers here and there. Behind all of them, a deep red-on-red design contrasted against the cup’s creamy white background. A narrow gilded leave-like pattern rimmed the scalloped edge of the cup. Sophisticated and elegant, every hand-painted brush stroke more beautiful than the next.

“Aunt Lucille . . .” Her name escaped my lips. As I closed my eyes, I saw her. Seated across from me at the miniature table in the guest room she’d decorated just for me. Her red hair, always in a perfect updo of curls with a big bow in the back, wouldn’t dare allow even a hint of gray. Never mind the stash of Just My Shade in “Light Auburn #2” I’d discovered in the bathroom cabinet. Her secret was safe with me.

She always took time first thing every morning to apply makeup to her pale complexion. A little reinforcement to the eyebrows, a dash of blue shadow on her crinkled lids, a wisp or two of mascara to her fine lashes. Then came the rouge she so loved, kissing those powder-dusted cheeks. And the ever-present Parisian Rhapsody highlighting her lips, always the perfect companion for the bright shades of purple and turquoise she loved to wear.

In my mind, I watched as she lifted the cup I now held in my hand, her pinky raised, taking a sip of hot chamomile. I watched a much younger version of myself mimic her every move. We had tea parties in my room every afternoon at four o’clock—tea with cinnamon scones or wedges of her mouth-watering Scottish shortbread. She’d collected vintage teacups from her travels all over the world. Each cup and saucer had a story—anecdotes she eagerly shared with me, her eyes aglow with memories of exotic trips abroad.

It was the summer of my tenth year. My parents were overseas for a conference, and I had been so thrilled to take my first airplane ride to Chicago. There I would stay with my aunt and uncle while Mom and Dad were away. Aunt Lucille’s only child, my cousin Stephen, was off at college. And for those four glorious weeks in July, I was the daughter she’d never had.

And I adored her.

She spoiled me rotten, and I loved every moment of it. We toured museums. We browsed the wondrous aisles of Marshall Fields downtown. We explored fabric shops tucked in the Garment District of the Windy City. We went to a theater in the round.

And twice a week, we shopped at the fresh market downtown, buying luscious fat blueberries and strawberries, seedless watermelons, asparagus and pole beans, and the biggest, juiciest tomatoes I’d ever seen. Lucille was an accomplished cook, and I loved sitting atop the stool in her kitchen, watching her work her magic on dishes I’d never heard of before, let alone tasted. Best of all, I got to witness the miraculous assembly of her Hazelnut Almond Torte, an extraordinary masterpiece with twelve layers that took three days to make—a cake for which she was famous.

I caught myself licking my lips, remembering the blended flavors of that incredible delicacy.

I looked down, fingering the exquisite cup cradled in my hands. “I remember,” I whispered, recalling its story. When Lucille was younger, she’d found this little treasure in a quaint shop in England near Jane Austen’s hometown. My aunt loved to read. And her love of books was highly contagious that summer. She told me all about Miss Austen, the English author whose famous Regency romances had captured hearts for centuries. That summer Aunt Lucille bought me my first Jane Austen book—a delightful comedy called Emma.

It was the beginning of my life-long love affair with the written word.

Just one month ago today, my father called to tell me his sister, my precious aunt and namesake, had died in her sleep.

The funeral was a blur to me now. I returned a few days later, leaving Mom and Dad to sort through her will and all of her possessions along with Stephen and his family. I was already way behind deadline before I left for the funeral. When I returned, I plowed into a brick wall instead of a manuscript. I must have deleted at least a dozen false starts, each one as bad as the one before it. I just couldn’t settle into a story line I liked. I began to hate the characters that kept vying for my attention and gladly deleted them off the page. Which, of course, left me with nothing but empty pages.

I just couldn’t find my mojo. Whatever the heck that was. Something was missing. And as I marked each day off the calendar, the pressure mounted, making my creative juices quite literally disappear. I wondered if they’d left for good.

That was three weeks ago.

An envelope floated to the surface of all that popcorn. I opened it, reading Dad’s short note. “Lucille specified in her will that these teacups were to go to you. I know you’ll cherish them as much as she did. Love, Dad.”

As I carefully finished unwrapping each of the cups and their matching saucers, I kept thinking back to those tea parties with Aunt Lucille. The delicious chats we had. Her endearing patience as I rattled on and on about my serious crush on Rodney. Or was it Jared? The spell-binding stories she shared about the handsome Northwestern student who courted her, married her, then enlisted in the Army Infantry after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I always hung on her every word.

Oh my goodness.

That’s it!

These teacups! The stories . . .

Suddenly my head began to explode with ideas. Lots of them. I set the cup down and stared at it. Then I grabbed my head between my hands and closed my eyes. A whole library of movie-like scenes fast-forwarded through the camera lens inside my mind.

A hopeless romantic in a modern-day twist to Jane Austen’s Emma . . . in Austin?

A misfit couple of journalists thrown together . . . on the Oregon coast?

A fresh start in a small town . . . and a pastor who rides a Harley?

And a familiar love story set against the heartbreaking backdrop of World War II.

“STOP!”

Gertie started barking, no doubt wondering why I’d yelled. I dropped into the kitchen chair, staring off into that no-man’s land where authors often discover their characters. They paraded by, one after another, already outfitted in their respective costumes, each trying to tell me something about themselves.

Each one carrying a teacup on a saucer.

Hands down, the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.

My eyes tracked back over to the collection of my aunt’s teacups. Don’t laugh, but I’m pretty sure I could hear their voices calling out to me. Some even had English accents. As if teacups could talk.

As if teacups could talk . . .

I grabbed the first cup and saucer I’d held, the one with the red and gold design, and took it to the sink. I washed and rinsed both pieces, then carefully dried them. I heated some water in my stainless steel teapot, and a few minutes later, a bag of Lipton tea brewed in the dainty cup I carried back to my office. I cleared the clutter and set it down, allowing it to brew a few minutes more as I opened a new file on my computer.

If teacups could talk . . .

I was amused to find those characters had all followed me into my little office. We were a bit cramped, but that’s okay. We needed to get to know each other up close and personal. It was also rather noisy, what with them all still chatting among themselves.

She should tell our story first. It was our idea, after all . . .

It’s the renegade wheel off my luggage. You don’t want to know . . .

Okay, don’t be alarmed but I smell smoke in your clothes.

Anyone bring the Glenn Miller records?

Is that egg nog homemade?

Mentally, I told them all to zip it so I could think. Even Gertie yipped as she hopped up onto her favorite chair. She sniffed the air suspiciously then nestled into her afghan. Did she notice our imaginary guests as well? Their whispers floating around the room?

“Hush!” I scolded them. “I mean it. Not one more word from any of you. We have work to do.”

I took a sip of the steaming tea, almost crossing my eyes as I studied the details of the tiny paint strokes along the rim of the cup. Then I gently put it back on its saucer, rolled up my sleeves, and starting typing.

Tea with Emma

A novella by Lucy Alexander

Chapter 1

British Airways flight 6732 from London Heathrow banked effortlessly toward the south, beginning its initial decent to Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. Maddie Cooper awoke, aware of the slight change in altitude. She lifted the window shade to peek at the horizon, now tilted at a perfect forty-five degree angle.

She gently touched the shoulder of her friend seated beside her. “Lanie, wake up. We’re almost home. We’re about to—” A vigorous yawn eclipsed her statement.

“Right, Maddie, like I was supposed to understand that?”  Elaine Morgan, known by all her friends as Lanie, clasped her fingers behind her neck, twisting her head back and forth. “Massive crick here. What time is it?”

“About 6:00 p.m. Eastern. We’re right on time.”

“Would the British have it any other way?” Lanie’s attempt at a stodgy English accent triggered the usual laughter.

Maddie arched a brow in that unspoken language between close friends, chiding the pitiful mimic.

“I say, old girl, are you mocking me?” Lanie continued, still stretching her neck.

“Indeed. I am most assuredly mocking you. I shan’t deny it a moment longer.” Maddie affected each syllable in her best English aristocratic imitation. “A fortnight in Jane Austen’s very world begs me do justice to Her Majesty the Queen’s native tongue. T’was not my intent to offend you. T’was only my desire to cause you mirth.”

“I mirth! I mirth! Enough already!” Lanie begged in a thick Southern drawl. Their joined laughter rang louder than intended. The seat in front of Maddie abruptly snapped upright. She and Lanie tried to squelch any further outbursts, but the resulting effort caused Maddie to snort, triggering more suppressed laughter.

The passenger in front of them jerked around the seat to face them with a harsh glare.

“Sorry,” Maddie mouthed sheepishly at him.

“Is it just me,” Maddie whispered into Lanie’s ear, “or do you feel like a child reprimanded by a crotchety old school teacher? Only he’s not that old. He can’t be that much older than us, can he? What a jerk.”

Lanie smirked, dismissing the man’s rude behavior with a flip of her wrist. She continued massaging the pain in her neck. “Oh, Maddie, didn’t we have the most wonderful time? I feel like we’ve been time traveling in another era. I just wish we could’ve stayed forever, don’t you?”

Maddie closed her eyes, reliving the sights and experiences of the past fourteen days on their official Jane Austen tour. “I do, but I’m determined to bring that whole mystique back with us to Austin.” She opened her eyes, turning toward Lanie. “Am I crazy to try this? Do you think I can actually pull off an authentic English tea room?”

She reached for the carry-on bag below her seat. She unzipped it, digging through its contents before carefully lifting the flowered box.

“What are you doing? We’re about to land, silly.”

“I know. I can’t help it.” She unlatched the tray table and let it down, then set the box on it. Maddie untied the string and opened the box, lifting the tissue-covered object onto the tray. She peeled back the layers of paper, finally unveiling the fussy teacup and its matching saucer. “It’s just as beautiful as I remember.”

“That it is.”

She traced her finger along the rim of the cup, the gold sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the small window. “Have you ever seen anything so fine? Look at these hand-painted flowers. Can’t you just imagine the Queen herself sipping tea from this very cup?”

Lanie drank from an imaginary cup, her pinky held high. “I assure you, my dear,” she announced, the accent dripping, “had these royal lips touched that royal cup, you would never have been able to afford it.”

“Is that so?” Maddie raised her teacup to toast Lanie’s air-copy. “Well, please don’t tell that adorable man at the gift shop where I bought it. He assured me it had ‘history from the palace’—wink, wink.”

Lanie picked up the saucer, examining its design. “Those winks can be translated: ‘If you believe that, I’ve got some swamp land to sell you in Wales.’”

“Surely you jest!”

“What, you’ve never heard of gators and crocs in the English countryside?”

“Lanie.”

“Maddie.”

She waved her off, then rewrapped the cup and saucer and returned them to the box. “Doesn’t matter. I’m so excited, it’s all I can think about.”

“The teacup?”

“No, eeijt, the tea room. I can’t remember being so sure of anything in all my life. A Jane Austen tea room in Austin, Texas. I mean, think about it. It’s got to be destiny! And I know Nana will be excited too, once I share all my ideas with her. I’ll do my research, I’ll study all about the different teas and pastries, and we’ll design everything down to the last detail. I can see it all in my head already. Patrons will think they’ve literally stepped into Chawton Cottage.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming, Lanie. Can I do it? Will you help me?”

“Of course you can, and of course I’ll help, silly. It’s just what Austin needs. And no one could do it better than you. Just don’t forget your promise to let me work there, m’dear.” The pitiful accent was back. “I’ll be a real asset to you, I will!”

“The job is yours but lose the Eliza Doolittle, will you?”

“Deal.”

“I still can’t believe Nana surprised us with this dream trip, can you?”

Lanie yawned again. “She’s amazing. And I think it’s so funny how she conspired with Jonathan to make all the tour arrangements for us. Who knew he could pull all that together?”

“That part doesn’t surprise me at all. He can do anything. He may be her attorney, but I’ve watched their friendship grow the last few years. He treats her—I don’t know, really special. Don’t you think?” Maddie smiled, envisioning dear Jonathan, his rim of white hair and the half-glasses permanently riding low on his prominent nose.

She ventured down a whimsical path she’d been traveling a lot lately. Her divine call as a matchmaker was becoming clearer with each passing day. I’m not sure how to do it, but somehow I’m going to get those two together. I’m quite certain this is what God wants me to do. Help people find their soul mates.

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

Maddie blinked out of her musings and picked up here she left off. “Jonathan positively adores her. All she has to do is reach for the phone and he comes running. But still, I’m blown away that she wanted to do this for us. It’s just too much.”

Lanie cocked her head and glared at her. “Too much? Look, you’ve taken care of her for almost eight years now. You’ve had more career offers than most people have in a lifetime, yet you shelved all of them to look after Nana after her stroke. You’re a saint and an angel, and she knows it. She was thrilled to do this for you. It’s not that big of a leap to figure it out. She’s just grateful, Maddie. Really, really grateful.” She pinched her friend’s elbow. “I’m just glad I got to tag along.”

“Ouch! Stop that!” Maddie rubbed her elbow with great flair. “Enough with the pinching, okay? Besides, you make me sound like Mother Teresa. Easy on the accolades or that regency bonnet I bought in Southampton will never fit.”

Lanie blew out a weary sigh. “But I’m serious! You’re an inspiration to everyone who knows you.” She looped her arm through Maddie’s on the armrest. “Me included. Not a bad birthday present either, that’s for sure. But then, a girl doesn’t turn thirty every day.”

“Shhh!” Maddie ducked down in her seat. “You don’t have to broadcast it to the entire plane.”

Lanie rolled her eyes. “What’s to hide? You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’ve got great hair, you’re the most thoughtful and compassionate person I know. So what if you’re still single and seriously geriatric?”

“Stop!” Maddie growled playfully, smacking Lanie’s elbow and bringing on a fresh wave of giggles.

“DO. YOU. MIND!”

The Pierce Brosnan accent emerged from the contorted, infuriated face of the Scrooge peering over his seat at them.

Maddie blinked as her imagination took immediate flight onto the big screen. She, playing the part of Jane Austen’s Emma, being reprimanded by the handsome Mr. Knightley as they practiced archery, dressed in regal finery. Only this Mr. Knightley had thick brown hair with the slightest curl in it—a bit unruly perhaps—framing a frighteningly serious face. She noticed a few streaks of gray, surprising on someone so young. Only the faintest hint of laugh lines fanned his startling blue eyes. As if he once knew laughter—but not in a long, long time . . .

“In case you haven’t noticed, no one else on this aircraft is even remotely interested in your incessant chatter and ridiculous cackling.” The Brit spoke in angered tones barely above a whisper. His biting words snapped Maddie back to reality.

“I suggest you attempt to contain yourselves for the remaining moments of this flight or I shall ask the flight attendant to sequester both of you to the loo. Am I making myself quite clear?” His eyes blazed first at Lanie then at Maddie.

Neither moved or made a sound.

“Well? Am I?” he demanded.

“Quite. Yes. Quite.” Maddie’s words sounded stilted even to her own ears. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We’ll try. We really shall try. Absolutely. Our deepest apologies. Deepest. Truly.” Oh no. Please tell me I didn’t say that with an accent? He’ll think I’m mocking him. She clamped her mouth shut and forced a pathetic smile.

Lanie elbowed her, casting an agitated glance before turning to face the intruder. “Listen, Ebenezer, I don’t know who you think you are, but unless you own this big bird, what gives you the right to—”

Maddie returned the jab.

“OW!”

“Please accept our apologies,” Maddie interrupted with no trace of an accent. “We won’t disturb you again.”

Lanie glared at her. Maddie returned a plastered smile, raising her eyebrows to communicate in their silent language again: Not. Another. Word.

The man disappeared behind the seatback, his exasperated sigh drifting between the seats.

Lanie rolled her eyes again, slouching down in her seat. “Well, that was fun,” she whispered. “Sounds to me like someone got up on the wrong side of the island this morning.”

Half an hour later, the exhausted travelers gathered their belongings from the overhead compartments and exited the plane. Maddie and Lanie carefully avoided eye contact, or any other kind of contact, with Sir Scrooge. Through the terminal they kept a safe distance as they made their way to the baggage area.

“Maddie, look—it’s him,” Lanie grunted as they reached their carousel. “Get a load of all those bags. He must have paid a fortune in extra baggage fees. He’s got more luggage than we do combined.” She snorted. “The man travels like a girl.”

They broke into laughter again, more from fatigue than anything else, and watched his every move. Scrooge followed the sound until he spotted them, his jaw clenching at the sight of them. Visibly irritated, he looked away, busying himself as he counted all his bags. A uniformed skycap approached him, then began loading the bags onto a cart.

“What’s his problem anyway?” Maddie wondered, shaking off the distraction.

“Look, Maddie. Here comes your last suitcase. C’mon, let’s go. I’m beat.”

Maddie stepped through the crowd and reached for her bag, then stacked it atop her bigger one. Popping the handle up, she tilted the bags, rolling them behind her as she followed Lanie toward the exit doors. Lanie stopped short as her unsecured bags toppled over, spilling into everyone’s path. Maddie quickly helped her gather the scattered bags, moving them out of the way. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to use the straps to—”

“Stupid bags. I knew better than to borrow these from Alice.”

“I’ll get this one, let’s just go.” Maddie grabbed a smaller bag. Just as the automated doors slid open, she glanced up to see a man in an expensive dark suit holding a printed sign bearing the burnt orange University of Texas logo:

DR. IAN GRANT

“Over here—I’m Dr. Grant.”

At the sound of the familiar English accent, Maddie turned around just as Scrooge handed off his bags to the skycap and headed toward the man in the suit.

“Welcome, Dr. Grant! I’m Howard Martin, head of the English department at the University of Texas. We’ve chatted on the phone.”

Scrooge extended his hand toward Martin who grasped it heartily. “Right. Of course. Nice to meet you in person at last, Dr. Martin.”

“On behalf of the University, I welcome you to the United States and to our great state of Texas. We are most excited about your upcoming year with us. I trust you had a good flight?”

“Oh great,” Maddie muttered under her breath. “We’ve ruffled the feathers of a visiting professor.”

Lanie moaned. “Well, I guess I can kiss my raise goodbye,” she whined, concerned about her job as an assistant librarian on campus. Even as the words left her mouth, her bags fell over again, this time sending a broken wheel skittering with lightning speed across the tiled floor. Maddie and Lanie watched in horror as the renegade wheel headed right for Scrooge as if on missile lock.

“No! No! No!” Maddie cried in a hoarse whisper.

Lanie grabbed her bags then pushed Maddie, rushing for the automated doors. “Move it, Maddie. We’ve gotta get out of here. Hurry!” Just as the doors slid open again, they heard the distinctive cry of a man who’d lost his footing.

“Ahhhhhhh—” Thunk!

“Dr. Grant! Are you all right?”

Maddie leaned back to look through the closing doors as the commotion erupted in their wake. “But shouldn’t we—”

Lanie propelled Maddie through the doors, then with thumb and forefinger bracing her lips, let loose an ear-piercing whistle.

“TAXI!”

Chapter 2

“Ian, please let me know if you need anything else. I’m so sorry about all this,” Howard Martin apologized for the umpteenth time since the fiasco at the airport. “Are you sure I can’t arrange for a nurse to assist you? It won’t be any bother at all, and the University would, of course—”

“Howard, I’ll be right as rain in no time. I’ve lived alone long enough to know how to take care of myself. But thank you.” Ian limped to the door with the aid of his crutches, compliments of the hospital emergency room.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you be. You have my number if you need anything. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

“I will. Thank you, Howard.”

Martin backed out the front door, casting another mournful glance at Ian’s injured foot before heading down the bricked sidewalk to his car. Ian used one of his crutches to shove the heavy door closed then wrestled his way back to the living area just off the foyer. He dropped into the soft leather chair, tossing his crutches on the floor beside him, then propped his booted foot on the matching ottoman.

“It’s a bad sprain, Dr. Grant, but the x-rays show no broken bones. Just stay off your feet as much as possible and keep that foot elevated.” The ER physician had wrapped Ian’s right ankle and heel in a figure eight with miles of Ace Bandage.

Now, with his eyes resting on the oversized boot covering his throbbing foot, Ian blew out a frustrated sigh and dropped his head back against the chair. “Splendid.”

With only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the background, he closed his eyes and tried to figure out how he would prepare for his classes, navigate his way to and from the campus, or manage the simple things like showering and dressing. It was kind of Howard to offer to send help, but the last thing he wanted was some overzealous nurse smothering him day and night.

“Blast those ridiculous girls!” Ian punched the arm of the chair with his fist.

He’d seen them bothering with their bags as Martin arrived and made his introductions. It was bad enough to endure the flight from London with those two constantly twittering behind him. If he had heard one more word about Jane Austen, he would surely have lost his mind. A few days in England and they fancy themselves experts on the entire life and works of Miss Austen. Typical Yanks.

After arriving at the airport, they seemed to appear everywhere he turned in the terminal. Hard to miss the two of them. The dark-haired hippy with her long flowing skirt and stupendous floppy hat. The nerve of the woman, trying to tell me off. Absolutely appalling.

And how could you miss the tall one with her all those strawberry curls . . . or were they reddish blonde? He remembered the wisps of those curls dancing as she walked, glistening in the bright sky-lit terminal. Even through his tirade on the plane, he’d noticed her fair skin with the faintest of freckles sprinkled across a perfect nose.

Ian shook the image from his head disturbed by the thoughts. Good heavens, what’s the matter with me? Must be the painkillers they gave me at the hospital. But the imprint of her face continued drifting through his mind . . . her peculiar attempt at a smile after he’d chastised her on the flight. Were those eyes hazel or were they green? Green. Definitely green. I’ve never seen eyes so vibrant and alive. So . . . sincere?

He felt his facial muscles relax for the first time all day. With a grunt, he rubbed his face. Women are nothing but trouble, be it here or across the pond. It must be in their Yankee DNA.

Ian grabbed his crutches again and clumsily lifted himself off the chair. He wanted to check out his lodgings. Howard had described Bradford House, the university’s residence for visiting professors, as “comfortable and nicely appointed.” Indeed. He was pleased with his surroundings—the hardwood floors, the expensive leather furniture and works of art. Quite obvious the university took pride in housing guests here. The house, located in prestigious Hyde Park, was built in the late 1800s, according to Howard, but its caregivers had certainly outdone themselves keeping it up to date.

He continued his slow awkward tour of the downstairs, relieved to find the master suite on the first floor. King-size bed. Whirlpool tub in the master bath. An oversized desk beneath a large window in the study. And at the back of the house, a modern kitchen fit for a king and well stocked at that. He grabbed a chilled bottle of water from the refrigerator, snatched a handful of red grapes, and hobbled back to the bedroom.

An hour later, after a long hot bath, Ian fell into bed. With the BBC on mute on the bedroom’s large flat-screen television, he sunk deeper into the embrace of the soft sheets, finally giving in to his fatigue. Falling into a deep sleep in mere moments, he was surprised when none other than Jane Austen herself showed up. She turned out the light on the bedside lamp and clicked off the remote. Wait—how did she know how to do that? She tucked him into bed, much as his mother had done when he was just a lad. And just like Mum, she planted a gentle kiss on his brow. He looked full into her face—a face surrounded by wispy curls of strawberry blonde, adorned with a sprinkling of freckles across a perfect nose, warm green eyes, and smiling lips . . .

Good night, Jane.

Good night, Ian.

“Nana!”

Maddie flew across the foyer and into the sitting room where her grandmother sat reading. “Oh Nana, we had the most amazing time! You should have come with us! You would have loved it!” She knelt beside Rachel Cooper, engulfing her grandmother in an enormous bear hug.

“Oh good heavens, Madeline! You’re about to choke the stuffing out of me, dear.” The slow, careful cadence of her words warmed Maddie’s heart.

“I don’t care! I’ve missed you so much, and I have so much to tell you, and I don’t even know where to start and—wait—how are you feeling? Are you okay?” Maddie leaned back, taking in the full sight of her sweet Nana. Her eyes raced over the thick white hair, gathered into an elegant chignon. She searched her grandmother’s ever-smiling eyes, always filled with life and love . . . the gentle wrinkles around her mouth, still lopsided from the paralyzing effects of the stroke. She noticed Nana’s favorite summer shawl draped over her shoulders, a perfect match to her lavender blouse and slacks. The hint of lilacs, her grandmother’s familiar scent, reminded Maddie she was home again where she belonged. “Oh, you look perfectly wonderful!”

“I feel perfectly wonderful, sweetheart. Now, sit. I want to hear everything. But first tell me why you’re so late? I expected you almost three hours ago.”

Maddie fell onto the sofa beside Nana’s chair, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her. “I’m sorry. I should have called. Lanie arrived home to a crisis, and—”

“Mercy, what now? That poor child lives in eternal calamity.”

Maddie rubbed her eyes and yawned. “You’re not going to believe this. Alice was supposed to take care of Mr. Darcy. Well, apparently—being the selfish roommate that she is—she neglected to feed the poor cat and he died.”

“Oh no. Mr. Darcy is dead?”

“We’re guessing Alice must have spent most of the last fourteen days at her worthless boyfriend’s apartment. Left poor Mr. Darcy all alone without so much as a morsel. And Nana, you know how much Lanie loved that kitten! She couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t stop crying because she was crying—all the while, Alice acting like it wasn’t her fault that he died. Can you believe the audacity?”

Tears pooled in Nana’s tired eyes. “Dear Lanie. I can’t even imagine how upset she must have been.”

“Lanie was devastated. She kicked Alice out, told her to come back tomorrow for her things, then we buried poor Mr. Darcy.”

“She must be heartbroken.”

“Beyond heartbroken, but she wanted some time to herself, so she insisted I come on home. I guess she needs to grieve.”

“Call and check on her first thing in the morning, will you?” Nana unlocked her wheelchair and pressed the lever to drive herself across the room. “Now you stay right there. I’ll go see if Gretchen will make us some tea.”

Maddie stretched out on the sofa. “So, how did it work out with Gretchen? And please don’t tell me you’re going to hire her permanently and kick me out.” Maddie reached out to grasp her grandmother’s hand as she rolled by.

“Gretchen is a sweetheart. But you’re my Maddie. Need I say more?” Nana winked and rolled out of the room.

“Tea . . .” Maddie sat up, the entrepreneurial fires reigniting. “Nana, wait up! There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Lanie pulled the last tissue from her box of Kleenex and blew her nose. The male voice from the speaker on her laptop beckoned.

“Lanie, I’m so sorry. It’s killing me to hear you cry like this.”

She wiped her nose again, thankful Jeff couldn’t actually see her in this state. Granted, he’d never actually seen her at all. At least not in person. They’d been cyber-friends for several months now, but had never met face-to-face. Video-chatting via Skype was their usual method of communication. But on a night like this, she’d opted against the video, simply talking through the audio version.

“I just can’t seem to stop the tears, y’know? And yet I’m so angry, I could just BITE somebody!” she growled, holding back another sob.

“Totally understandable. A helpless little kitten, left all alone? I mean, who does something like that? What was she thinking? Where did you find this roommate anyway—the heartless store?”

“Not funny. Actually, she found me. Before my previous roommate Selena graduated, she told Alice about the apartment. They had some classes together or something. So Selena all but promised her she could move in with me once she moved out. I guess I should have checked her out better, but it was just so much easier than having to post ads for a new roommate or put the word out.”

Jeff blew out a long sigh. “So you didn’t notice the she-devil horns when she first showed up?”

Lanie wiped the remains of her mascara from her eyes. “No, she seemed fine. A little distant, but that’s actually not a bad thing for a roommate. I wasn’t looking for a gal-pal, just someone to help pay the rent. Guess I should have been a little more selective.”

“I’d say that’s a slight understatement, wouldn’t you?”

“No kidding.” She could hear the tapping on his keyboard when he answered.

“Are you busy? I’m sorry, I’ve taken up way too much of your time.” She sat up, trying not to be hurt by his obvious distraction.

“No, not at all, Lanie. I just had something I needed to order. I’m done. Sorry about that.”

She rubbed her face, suddenly exhausted. “Well, I probably need to get to bed. It’s after 2:00 here. I’ve got to get up in a few hours to go to work. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

“Don’t go. Besides, it’s only midnight here in California. We’ve got worlds of time.”

She could hear something pouring over ice through the speaker. “Yeah, well, you can’t exactly give me those two hours between us. What’s that you’re drinking?”

“I’d give you those two hours if I could, though. Just so you know. And it’s Dr. Pepper, since you asked. I had a craving.”

“Mmm. I haven’t had a Dr. Pepper since we left for England, and the fridge is bare. Could you bring one over?”

“Wish I could. But mostly I wish I could give you a hug right now.”

Lanie closed her eyes, trying to imagine how that would feel. This stranger she’d never met, so kind. So understanding of her broken heart. Oh, to be able to feel his arms around her . . . right here, right now.

“That would be nice, Jeff.”

She heard him inhale a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Someday, Lanie. Someday.”

“G’night, Jeff.”

“G’night, Lanie.”

Chapter 3

Ian tightened the belt of his robe before opening the heavy front door. As he maneuvered the crutches to propel himself through the door, the heat and humidity swallowed him whole. So this is autumn in Texas. Ghastly hot. And to think school starts Monday. Feels more like summer holiday.

He spotted the folded newspaper on the sidewalk near the street and started toward it. The wide porch gracing the front of the house sat atop ten broad steps. For a moment, he contemplated forgetting it. As he’d told Howard, he could read the London Times online, but he much preferred to hold a newspaper in his own hands. He liked the smell of the ink and the rustle of the pages. He also wanted to be more cognizant of his Austin surroundings by a daily browsing of the local paper. Determined, he reached for the handrail and slowly hopped down on his good foot, one step at a time using only one crutch.

“There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He limped up the brick path, leaning heavily on the crutch. Looking around, he noticed the houses were all quite old but in excellent shape. A canopy of trees covered the narrow street. An American flag snapped in the warm breeze at the house next door. Ian might have smiled at the Rockwellesque feel of it all, but he wasn’t in the mood. It was too hot. Besides, yesterday’s angst still gnawed at him. Grasping the crutch with one hand, he leaned over to grab the paper.

“It’s you!”

A woman’s voice startled him. Losing his balance, he hung onto the crutch for dear life while trying desperately not to put any weight on his bad foot. Hopping around like an eejit, he finally regained his balance and stopped the dreadful dance.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you!”

The voice edged closer. Ian whipped his head around in time to see a flash of pastel pink crossing the street—an ankle-length cotton robe hovering over outlandish fluffy pink slippers.

“Here, let me help you,” she begged, picking up the newspaper.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he snapped, holding his hand up to stop the intruder. “I’m quite all ri—” The oxygen whooshed from his lungs when he recognized the fountain of blondish-red curls. The green eyes blinked back at him innocently. A growl erupted. “It’s—you!”

Her eyes widened as a shy smile slowly crept across her face. She thinks I’m happy to see her! The woman is positively delusional!

“Yes, I’m the one from the airplane yesterday and—”

“I know exactly who you are!” he grunted. “And don’t think I’m not well aware of the fact it was the wheel off your suitcase that gave me this!” Ian pointed to his bandaged foot. He could feel the vein on his neck pulsing.

“Actually, no, it was Lanie’s wheel. You see—”

“It doesn’t matter! I knew the two of you were trouble the minute you got on that plane. All that non-stop prattling and ridiculous giggling. Outrageous behavior for women your age. Absolutely outrageous! And if that weren’t enough, you go fumbling through the terminal, dropping your bags, causing mayhem—and breaking my foot!” He straightened, as if just pronouncing them guilty as charged in a court of law. He snatched the paper from her and started clomping back toward the steps.

“But if you’ll just let me explain, I’m sure you’ll see that it was just an accident! I was horrified when that wheel came off and starting rolling toward you!”

Ian stopped in his tracks without turning. He jerked his head to face her. “Do you mean to tell me you knew the wheel had come off? You saw it rolling toward me yet said nothing?”

“I—I, well you see—”

“Barbaric. Positively barbaric! You Americans have a lot to learn about common decency. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He hadn’t noticed he’d gotten in her face, mere inches from her. The realization stopped him cold.

She dropped her head, lifting a palm to her forehead. When she looked up, her eyes glistened in the morning light. “I’m so sorry,” she began quietly. “I wanted to do something—say something, but Lanie thought we should—look, it doesn’t matter what happened. It was wrong of us. I’m trying to apologize as best I know how. I had no idea you might break your foot. Is it terribly painful? Are you all right?”

Ian fought the urge to surrender. He fought the melting sensation drifting through him. He was much too close to her; her face even more lovely than he remembered. Not breathtaking or gorgeous, but a natural kind of beauty. Still, he mustn’t be swayed by her mere appearance. “Yes, it’s quite painful. I hardly slept at all last night, no thanks to you.”

She leaned over, studying the boot on his injured foot. “They didn’t put a cast on it? That’s odd. I thought a break usually necessitated a—”

“Yes, well, actually it isn’t completely broken. Just sprained. But a bad sprain. Very bad. And quite the inconvenience, too. I’m to start classes Monday and now look at me.” He lifted his chin in defiance and turned back toward the house again.

“So that’s why you’re staying at the guest house. You’re a visiting professor, aren’t you?”

The sound of her voice was too close. Good grief, she’s following me. “Yes, I am.”

“What will you teach, Dr. Grant?”

He stopped, turning again to face her. “How on earth could you possibly know my name?”

A lazy smile tilted the right corner of her mouth. “That little sign, remember? The one Dr. Martin was holding when he greeted you. Had your name on it? Hard to miss.”

He shook his head, weary of the conversation. “Yes, well, why don’t you scurry on home and leave me alone. I have work to do.”

She darted in front of him. “The least I can do is help you up the stairs. Here, take my arm,” she offered, raising her elbow toward him.

“I’ll do no such thing! I came down, I can most certainly go back up.”

She pulled her arm back. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Are all the English so obstinate?”

“Good day, Miss—”

“Cooper. Madeline Cooper. Though my friends call me Maddie.”

“Miss Cooper. Now if you’ll please honor my request and leave.”

She turned toward the street, scuffing those fluffy pink slippers on the brick sidewalk. “As you wish, Dr. Grant. My grandmother and I live just across the street there. If you need help, please don’t hesitate to ask. We won’t bite . . . unless it’s contagious.”

Maddie closed the door, then peeked through the sheers at the house across the street. Dr. Grant—Ian—was still struggling up the porch steps. A snort escaped as Maddie watched. One more step, dear grumpy man, and you’re home free . . . there you go. I knew you could do it. She smiled, watching him straighten himself, looking around though carefully avoiding a glance in her direction. He hobbled into the house and slammed the door.

She continued spying, her mind whirling over the encounter. “You’re awfully young to be a visiting professor, Dr. Grant,” she mused out loud. “Most of those guys are old as the hills, with hair coming out of their ears and nose. I’m guessing you can’t be more than thirty-eight? Thirty-nine? Forty tops. So how did you end up in the Lonestar State at our little ol’ prestigious university?”

With her thoughts lost on the mysterious guest living across the street, she suddenly noticed he’d pulled back the curtains in the front room, peering out the window, looking straight at her. She darted out of sight, her heart pounding.

“Well, well, well, Dr. Grant. Seems you’re not the tough guy you pretend to be, now are you?”

Later, Maddie rinsed the last of the breakfast dishes and placed it in the rack to dry. “Nana, don’t you think it’s providential that this Dr. Grant was on the same plane, that we had that, uh, ‘unfortunate’ situation arise so that we met, and now I find out that he’s living right across the street at Bradford House? I mean, what are the odds of that? It’s like God dropped him into my lap ‘for such a time as this.’ For me—Madeline Cooper—to find the perfect soul mate for him. If ever there was a man whose very essence cried out for female companionship, it is Dr. Ian Grant. And I’m just the one to find him that perfect companion!”

Nana laughed heartily. “Oh honey, I hate to disappoint you but your name is Madeline, not Queen Esther. You do live in another realm, don’t you?”

Nana’s gentle chuckle filled the room. Maddie poured them both another cup of tea then joined her grandmother at the kitchen table. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m as sane as the next person.” She couldn’t camouflage the grin tugging at her lips.

Nana stirred cream into her teacup and continued. “Sane indeed. If I’d had any idea you’d come back from England with your head filled with all these grandiose, romantic notions, I might have thought twice about sending you in the first place. I fear you’ve been bitten by some idyllic Jane Austen bug but good. Might I remind you this isn’t eighteenth century England, and there are no fancy balls or elaborate picnics here in Austin.  I don’t mean to burst your bubble, dear, but playing the matchmaker can be quite a dangerous task. And surely you remember Emma’s disastrous results?”

“Now, Nana, where’s your sense of adventure? Why should Jane Austen have all the fun? I believe this trip was ordained by God. In fact, I’m quite certain of it.”

At that pronouncement, Nana laughed out loud.

Undaunted, Maddie continued. “I am! I believe with all my heart that God exposed me to Jane Austen’s world through that tour, gave me a genuine taste of her life and her utter romantic genius, then sent me home to bring a touch of her to all of us here. That’s why I’m the obvious choice to find a mate for Dr. Grant, and that’s why I’m going to open this tea room. Oh, Nana, won’t it be fun? I can hardly wait until we open!”

Nana wiped her lips with the cloth napkin. “Oh, you’ll liven it up, all right. You always do. But as for our new neighbor Dr. Grant, why try to find him a girlfriend? Why don’t you just invite him over for dinner? Maybe you’re his perfect soul mate.”

Maddie snorted, spilling her tea. “Now that’s funny. You should see his disdain every time he looks at me. He’d limp all the way back to England if he thought I had my sights on him. But thanks for the laugh, Nana. That’s a good one.”

Nana backed her chair away from the table and buzzed over to the counter where she set her empty cup and saucer. “You’re much too picky, Madeline. One of these days you need to climb down out of that ivory tower and take a look around you. And don’t think I don’t know what all this nonsense about matchmaking is about.”

She pulled alongside Maddie, reaching out to stroke her hair with her good hand. “Just because your father was a sorry example of a gentleman—and an unaffectionate one at that—does not mean that all men are out to hurt you. Playing Cupid to avoid a relationship of your own can only lead to trouble, sweetheart.”

Maddie looked down at her hands, uncomfortable with the conversation. Nana patted her granddaughter’s cheek, then pressed the lever to move her wheelchair toward the door. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that right now.”

“Wait, Nana. We still need to talk about the tea room. I want to make sure you’re one hundred percent behind the idea. I can’t do it without your help, and for the record, I won’t do it without you.”

She followed her grandmother down the hall to the living room. She loved watching her maneuver the automated wheelchair around the house with all the expertise of a Daytona 500 race car driver. Only a tad slower.

“I’m already ten steps ahead of you, dear. Not only am I behind you and looking forward to our little adventure, I’ve already called Jonathan and invited him to dinner tonight to discuss our plans. He’ll need to help us with the financial arrangements and legal aspects. Besides, I value his opinions and want his input on this.”

Dear Jonathan . . . what a perfect couple they’d make.  Maybe we’ll add a little candlelight to set the mood tonight. I’ll pick up some fresh flowers and—

“—which reminds me. Why don’t you call Lanie and invite her to join us. Maybe we can help get her mind off poor Mr. Darcy.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. Oh Nana, have I told you lately how much I love you? There’s no place on earth I’d rather be than right here with you.” She hugged her grandmother then placed a loud, wet kiss on her wrinkled cheek.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Madeline. You’ll smear my rouge.” She teasingly waved her away. “But sit down for a minute. There’s something else I want to discuss with you. I’ve done a lot of thinking while you were gone, and I think we’re due for a bit of a change, you and I.”

Chapter 4

Maddie pulled the upholstered ottoman directly in front of her grandmother’s wheelchair and plopped down on it. “Change? What kind of change?”

“Last night, I did a lot of thinking, and I made a decision about something. Madeline, there hasn’t been a day go by that I haven’t loved having you here with me. After your dear mother passed away when you were only four, then your father made himself so scarce all the time—”

“Nana, it’s okay. You’ve been the best parent a child could ask for.”

“Let me finish, dear. I raised him to know better. George knows he’s not done right by you, spending so much time in Hong Kong. No business is more important than family, Madeline. You remember that in the years ahead. And if you ever find a young man worthy of your love only to find out his work is his god, then you run! Do you hear me? You run like the wind.”

Maddie watched as her grandmother grew more animated, despite her slow, methodical speech pattern. It was a familiar topic of discussion, one that Nana brought up often, though usually around the holidays when George Cooper called from overseas with his litany of excuses why he wouldn’t be able to come home. Years ago Maddie had learned to close the door on her feelings about the father she hardly knew. She knew her grandmother still grieved that he had abandoned his child so soon after her mother’s death.

But for Maddie, all she ever knew was the love of her adoring grandmother, and that was enough. Rachel Cooper was there for Maddie when she learned to ride a bike, when she had her tonsils out, when she shopped for her first bra, and when she sang her first solo in the Christmas program. She was right there when Maddie struggled with peer pressure in high school, when she eventually graduated with honors—and when her college sweetheart found someone new, leaving her heart shattered.

When Nana suffered a massive stroke just weeks after Maddie graduated from UT, there was no question in Maddie’s mind who would take care of her. Never looking back, she learned the necessary skills to care for a stroke victim paralyzed on one side, otherwise known as “unilateral” paralysis. She learned to bathe her, to use the automated lift to get her in and out of bed. She helped her exercise, hoping to help her regain the use of her left arm and leg. And more than anything, she tried to return the gift of love—a lifetime of love.

“So what’s this big decision you’ve made?”

Nana reached for her hand and Maddie gave it willingly. “No one could have cared for me better. Most children, let alone grandchildren, would just shut their loved ones away in some institution, but you stayed with me. I’ll never forget it, sweetheart. But the time has come for you to move on.”

“No! Stop talking like that.” Maddie pulled her hand back, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “I don’t think I like the direction this is going.”

Nana laughed easily. “Well, if you think I’m offering to check myself into some old folks home, you’re wrong. I’ve simply decided to ask Gretchen to stay on with us. To live here with us. I want her to take care of all those mundane tasks—the bathing, the dressing, the lifting here and there, the cooking and cleaning—and let you simply be my granddaughter again. My live-in granddaughter, of course.”

A whoosh of air rushed from Maddie’s lungs. “Oh, is that all?” She grabbed Nana’s good hand. “I thought you were kicking me out! Good heavens, don’t ever do that again. You scared me half to death!”

“I think it’s the best of both worlds. I already love that dear girl like she’s one of my own. She’s efficient and cheerful, and we get along famously. And oh my, how she loves the Lord. We’ve shared the dearest prayer times together. Besides, I hate for you to have to do all those things for me. You need a life of your own. We should have done this years ago. And it will free you up so that you can open your tea room—”

“Our tea room.”

“Yes, of course. Our tea room. So what do you think?”

“I think it’s smashing, my dear. I think it’s extraordinary.” Lacing her words with her contrived English accent, Maddie jumped up, lunging for another hug.

“Oh dear, here comes the accent again,” Nana moaned, buried in the exaggerated embrace.

Maddie leaned back. “Yes, and do get used to it, love, for I shall practice it day and night to put myself in the proper mindset for our very proper English tea room.”

“And just what have you decided to call this very proper English tea room?”

“What do you think of The Chawton Tea Room?” Maddie studied her grandmother’s face.

“Named for Jane Austen’s home? I think it’s perfect.”

“Do you? Given, that’s where the idea first occurred to me?”

“Absolutely. Then The Chawton Tea Room it is. And Maddie, don’t forget to pray about all this, dear. Remember what the Bible says—‘In all thy ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your path.’ Give this tea room to Him and see what He has in store for you.”

“Not to worry, Nana. God is all over this. I’m sure of it.”

“He’s across the street? Right now?”

Lanie and Maddie peeked out the living room window at the stately brick home across the street. The last traces of sunlight cast golden shadows across the four white pillars bedecking the spacious front porch. “Where else would he be? He’s on crutches. And I feel terrible about it, Lanie. It’s all our fault. We never should have run off like that. What were we thinking?”

“Doesn’t bother me in the least.” Lanie continued snooping, hoping for any sign of movement. “That’s what he gets for being so rude to us. What a jerk. That reminds me—I almost forgot . . .” Lanie reached for her purse and dug out the copy of The Daily Texan. “Get a load of this, will you?”

“Oh my goodness.” With Lanie leaning over her shoulder, Maddie scanned the headlines of the school newspaper. “‘Texas Welcomes Dr. Ian Grant’ . . . And look, there’s our very own Scrooge in a flowing black robe walking across Oxford’s historic campus. Do you believe this?” Maddie’s voice trailed off as she stared at the second picture, a head shot of the professor. “He’s much better looking than this, don’t you think?”

“That’s what I told Amanda, which, of course, sent her into vapors. She’s already asked me to introduce him to her.”

Maddie lowered the paper. “Your boss wants you to introduce her to him? Not gonna happen. She way too flirtatious for him.”

Lanie shot her a questioning glance then peeked back out the window. “He must be some kind of big cheese in the English literary field. Everybody’s talking about him.”

“Ooh! Right up our alley. He’s probably an expert on Jane Austen. We should drop by for a chat sometime. Better yet, invite him to our next book club meeting.” Maddie wiggled her eyebrows.

Lanie’s face deadpanned. “I think not. Are you out of your mind? Have you already forgotten how rude he was to us on that plane? Never mind that we broke his foot. The farther we stay from him, the better, Maddie. Besides, I probably shouldn’t mention this, but—”

“But of course you will because we keep no secrets,” Maddie finished, still staring at the picture of Ian Grant.

“Okay, but just remember—this is nothing but gossip, so there’s a good chance it’s bogus at the very least.”

“Out with it.”

Lanie moved to the sofa, kicking off her shoes. “I can’t believe I’m repeating Amanda’s gossip. Oh well. Apparently, a few years ago, our dear Dr. Grant was jilted at the altar. As in, literally at the altar. Rumor is he’s a bit of a stuffed shirt because of it.” She smirked a half-smile. “At least we know that part is true.”

Maddie took a seat in the easy chair, staring off into space as her mind chased a romantic rabbit.

“Oh no you don’t,” Lanie chided. “I know that look in your eyes. Don’t even think about it, Maddie.”

“Think about what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking. Just forget it.”

“But don’t you see? He needs us. He needs our help to find him that special someone who can take away the hurt and show him what real love is all about. It’s what we do best.”

Lanie covered her face with her hands, moaning. “Leave me out of this. You’re asking for nothing but trouble. Big trouble. He’s a lose-lose, any way you figure it.”

“He just needs a little TLC, that’s all. I could tell this morning when we talked. He’s covering for something. I could see it in his eyes. He tries to come across tough and uncaring, but it’s just an act.” She poked the paper with her forefinger. “And now we know why.”

Lanie tilted her head. “Wait. You talked to him this morning?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you. I went out to get the paper, and there he was, across the street doing the same thing. Only he’s on crutches! Crutches that we put him on, Lanie.” Maddie looked toward the front window, nodding her head as if bearing the heavy mantle of guilt for them both.

“Phhhht, don’t pull me into your little pity party. I feel no guilt whatsoever. So what did he say? Was he still mean and grizzly?”

Maddie faced her again. “No, though I think I scared him a little.”

“You? Imagine that.”

“Stop it. I simply offered to help him up the porch steps, which he refused. But get this—when I came back in, I peeked through the sheers and saw him peeking back at me through the blinds of his living room! How funny is that?”

“Our Mr. Scrooge? Playing look-see through the window? Well, what do you know.”

Maddie brushed the wrinkles out of her apron then stood up again. “It’s just a matter of time, Lanie. Just a matter of time. They’re all putty in my hands, you know.”

Lanie smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Not again. Maddie, when are you going to learn? Reading Emma does not qualify you as some sort of love guru. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but girl, you are not a matchmaker.”

Maddie planted fists on hips. “I am too! Need I remind you about Jana and Doug? Hmmm? They married exactly six months after I introduced them.”

“And divorced a year later. Not exactly a successful match, if you ask me.”

Maddie waved her off. “What happens after they marry is not my concern. Now stop trying to dampen my spirits.”

“Thank goodness I found Jeff on my own, without your help. Did I tell you he called last night? We talked until two in the morning. Maddie, he was so wonderful comforting me about Mr. Darcy. I was so distraught, I couldn’t stop crying. I kept seeing his furry little body, all limp in that box we buried him in. That poor little guy . . . he didn’t deserve it.” Lanie’s eyes grew shiny with tears as her chin began to tremble.

She sniffed, wiping her eyes with her thumbs, then looked back up at Maddie. “But Jeff—he just let me talk and cry, and then he knew exactly what to say. It was like he was right there hugging me or something. I think I could really fall for this guy. He’s everything I’ve been looking for. He really is.”

Maddie didn’t miss the dreamy look in Lanie’s eyes. “But the fact is, he wasn’t there. He was across the country. He’s just a cyber romance, Lanie. Nothing more. I don’t understand you at all. You don’t even know this guy. He could be some—”

“Okay, okay. I’ve heard your lecture before. Same song, same verse. Give it a rest. Besides, how dangerous can he be? I met him in a Jane Austen chat room. Not exactly predator territory.”

“Like that means anything? You don’t know! He could be some major pervert just stalking the chat room. And even if he is a Jane fan, you have to admit—most of those guys are seriously needy geeks. Think about it. Have you ever met a good looking guy with a decent personality who would even consider watching a Jane Austen flick with you?”

Lanie peeked back out the window, avoiding eye contact with Maddie. “Did I mention he sent me flowers today? Last night I actually got my feelings hurt, thinking he was working or something as we talked. I could hear him typing on his keyboard. Turns out he was online ordering two dozen roses for me. They were delivered first thing this morning. They’re so beautiful, Maddie.”

“Like perverts don’t know how to charm a girl?” Maddie rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Lanie. Don’t be so gullible!”

Lanie plugged her ears with her forefingers. “I’m not listening anymore,” she answered in sing-song. “Can’t hear a word you sa-ay!”

“Fine!” Maddie shouted. Then realizing Lanie was still singing, she walked over and pulled the plugs on her friend. “Stop being a baby and come help me finish getting dinner ready. Jonathan will be here any minute.”

The sing-song continued as Lanie followed her into the kitchen. “I’ll be glad to he-elp, but no more lec-tures, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear the-em!”

Chapter 5

“Maddie, that was positively scrumptious.”

Jonathan Spencer’s compliment pleased Maddie as she cleared the dishes from the dining room table. “Why, thank you, Jonathan. Always a pleasure to have you join us.” She tossed a wink at Nana.

“You’re as good a cook as Rachel, but don’t tell her I said that,” he whispered loudly.

“I heard that,” Nana jested, right beside him.

Lanie gathered the remaining dishes from the table. “We all know Maddie stole all Nana’s recipes so we know precisely where the credit lies. Right, Nana?”

“Goodness knows I have no use for them,” Nana quirked with a laugh. “I’m just pleased Madeline does them justice. Which brings us back to our discussion. Jonathan, do you really think Madeline’s business endeavor can be up and running in just two or three months? Seems awfully fast to me.”

“I see no problem with the zoning permit,” Jonathan answered. “This section of the neighborhood is transitioning to homes with businesses—Crayton’s Antique Shoppe, The Book Nook—all similar concepts with proprietors living on the premises. But as for the fast track schedule, I suppose that all depends on Maddie.”

Maddie refilled everyone’s teacups before joining them again at the table. She’d honored Jonathan tonight by setting her new favorite at his place, the cup and saucer she’d brought home from England. She would forever associate the set she bought in Chawton village with her dream; its deep red and gold design and tiny flowers on a pristine white background, a visible reminder. She smiled as she sat back down, still admiring the cup even as Jonathan stirred sugar into it.

“Nana, I know we can do it. I’ve already ordered my books on English tea. I’ll study everything I need to know as fast as I can. I’ve already scoured the internet for information, recipes, that sort of thing. I’ll only be making a few of the pastries initially, experimenting with some new ones and making some of your favorites as well. The finger sandwiches are a cinch. Oh, remind me to let you sample my cranberry chicken salad panini tomorrow. I found the most amazing recipe. It calls for dried cranberries, chopped walnuts, chopped scallions, and several other things, mayo of course. Then you layer it on some sourdough bread with a sassy little smear of Brie and of all things, apricot preserves. Oh my goodness, the flavors just explode in your mouth!”

“I’m stuffed to the gills,” Jonathan added, “but that does sound awfully good. I might have to happen by around lunch time tomorrow.” He danced his unruly eyebrows up and down with delight.

Nana’s half-smile lifted as her eyes twinkled. “You know you’re welcome to stop by anytime, Jonathan. And I’m quite sure we’ll need another taste-tester, won’t we, Madeline?”

“Of course!” Maddie scratched above her brow, trying to remember her train of thought. “Where was I before I got distracted with that recipe? Oh! I know. I was just going to say that by the time we get the minor renovations finished, we should be ready to go.”

“For the record, I vote for these chess squares to be on the menu.” Jonathan helped himself to another of the gooey golden bars.

“Jonathan, I think I speak for all of us when I say we couldn’t do any of this without your sophisticated and experienced palate,” Maddie teased, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table. “As for these, we’ll dub them ‘Spencer’s Chess Squares’ in your honor.”

“Well now!” Jonathan beamed.

“Back to the task at hand, honey. Lanie’s going to help you with the marketing, printing, that sort of thing?” Nana inquired.

“Yes. She’s a whiz at layout and already has tons of ideas for advertising, don’t you, Lanie?”

“You’ll love what we come up with, Nana. I promise. It’s going to have a very English feel to it, top to bottom. And I’ve got a friend helping me design a simple website. Gotta have a web presence, you know.”

Maddie jumped back in. “Then I’ll do the decorating‌—‌tablecloths, window treatments, even personalized aprons for all of us. I can see it all in my head—it’s just a matter of pulling it all together. It’s going to be fabulous!”

Lanie took another sip of tea, then set the cup back on the delicate saucer. “Back up a sec, Maddie. Nana’s got a good point. What’s the rush?”

“Yes, Maddie, why the hurry?” Jonathan asked. “We definitely want this to be done right, so where’s the fire?”

Maddie wiped her mouth with her cloth napkin, blushing at the question. “No fire. Just a—I don’t know—a driving desire to do it. Now. I’ve been searching for years for something to pour myself into. I’m not sure I can explain it. I just feel such an urgency on so many different levels about this. Ever since our trip to England, it’s as if I’ve been called to do it—almost like a ministry. That probably sounds crazy, but it makes perfect sense to me. I guess I’m just asking you all to indulge me a little here. The sooner we open, the better.” She punctuated her request with an asking smile.

“Then that’s what we shall do,” Nana responded. Extending her hand to Jonathan, she instructed him, “Whatever it costs, whatever she needs, Jonathan. And you heard her—the sooner, the better.”

He wrapped her good hand in his, leaning over to kiss it. “Then, as Rachel so aptly put it, that’s what we shall do, ladies.” He patted her hand then turned to Lanie and Maddie. “We’ll get started right away on the remodeling in here and in the kitchen. And I know just the man for the job—Brad Chapman. He’s a contractor. Dependable, trustworthy, and he gets the job done.”

“I think I know who he is,” Lanie said. “Big guy? Nice tan? Thick black hair? Dimples?”

Maddie slowly tracked her attention. “So Lanie. Quite the information source on the new handyman, are we?”

“Stop with the insinuations, Maddie. I saw him at Home Depot a few weeks ago. It was no big deal. I happened to follow him out of the store and saw him get into a pickup, one of those big fancy kinds with a sign painted on the door—‘Brad Chapman Construction.’ No mystery, no romance, so put away your Cupid arrows, girl.”

Maddie cocked her eyebrow anyway. “All the more reason to get this ball rolling!”

Ian leaned back in his chair, pushing away from the desk. His head ached from too many hours pouring over his notes. He knew he could teach this subject in his sleep. So why all the frustration? Grabbing the crutches, he went through the routine, lifting himself from the chair and limping down the hall toward the kitchen. He stood in front of the large stainless steel refrigerator with the door open, welcoming the cool air against his skin. He reached for a chilled bottle of Pellegrino and closed the door. Moments later, seated on a wicker chair on the wide front porch, he tried to ignore the humid night air and just relax.

Resting against the soft padded cushions on the wicker, he pulled out the bottle and took a long swig of the sparkling water. The bite of the cold, bubbly liquid refreshed him instantly. He looked around, taking in the nighttime sights and sounds of the neighborhood. A dog barked in the distance. A whiff of fried chicken drifted from somewhere, and he realized he’d forgotten to eat.

When he finally allowed his eyes to venture across the street, he noticed extra cars in the driveway and lights in the front room on the left side of the house. Must be dinner guests. He couldn’t make out any more than that through the sheers, only several folks sitting around a table appearing to have a good time. Discussing nuclear physics, no doubt. He chuckled at his sarcasm.

A breeze rustled the leaves above him, a sound Ian found soothing along with the faint chirping of crickets. He let his eyes close and crossed his arms across his chest. In a matter of moments, he drifted off to sleep.

He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when a commotion across the street woke him. The guests were apparently leaving—an older gentleman getting into a newer model Cadillac, and a younger, shorter one heading for a nondescript sedan parked at the curb. Ah, the other partner in crime.

Ian scooted down in the chair, hoping they wouldn’t see him sitting on the dark porch. He could see—Madeline, was it?—standing at the top of her porch waving goodbye to them. When they drove off, she started back toward the front door, then did a double-take looking straight across the street at him.

“Don’t see me, don’t see me,” he whispered, willing her back into the house. As if on cue, she paused a moment then stepped into the house. Ian blew out the breath he’d been holding, thankful she hadn’t seen him.

Just as he was beginning to relax a few moments later, her door opened. Before he could move a muscle, she was half-way across the street.

“Hi neighbor. Warm night, isn’t it?”

Please don’t come over here and—

“I don’t know where my manners are, Dr. Grant. We had guests for dinner, and I should have invited you as well.”

He could see something in her hands as she gracefully walked up the steps to his porch. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse over a pair of faded blue jeans. He couldn’t help noticing how nice she looked in that blouse, her curls bouncing off the collar’s edge.

“No need to apologize. I couldn’t have come.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” She sat down on the wicker swing adjacent to his chair.

“Tell me, Miss—”

“Maddie Cooper. Remember?”

“Of course. Tell me, Miss Cooper, are all American women as forward as you?”

She smiled, and he hated the way it warmed him.

“I don’t consider myself forward at all, Dr. Grant. Or may I call you Ian?”

He had no clue how to respond so he didn’t.

“I’m not forward, Ian. Just trying to be hospitable. Neighborly. You’re in a new country, in new surroundings, all alone . . .” She pointed to his foot propped up on the small wicker table. “You’re infirmed—”

“Thanks to you and your accomplice.”

She dipped her head briefly. “Point well taken. All the more reason I should have invited you to dinner. But since I didn’t, the least I can do is share a few of our leftovers. I hope that’s not considered bad manners in England?” Her eyes sparkled even in the moonlight, accompanying her hopeful smile.

“Well, I . . . it’s not considered . . . but—”

“Good. Then I shall leave them with you. Just pop the Chicken Crescents in the microwave for about a minute. There’s also a Waldorf salad—apples, nuts, celery—and a couple of chess squares. I hope you like them. I’ll put this in the kitchen for you then you can eat whenever you like.”

With that, she disappeared inside the house. The audacity. She just walks in like she owns the place. These Yanks have a lot to learn about etiquette. Moments later she returned.

“It wasn’t necessary. You needn’t have bothered.” He tried to sound pleasant enough but somehow it didn’t come out that way.

She made her way to the top of the steps and began her descent. “Goodnight, Ian.”

He blinked, unsure what to make of her, what to say. She turned her head, casting one final smile before crossing the street.

Goodnight . . . Maddie.

Chapter 6

Maddie lifted the kettle of hot water to fill the Spode teapot to warm it properly. Carefully sloshing the water inside before pouring it back out, she then measured the loose tea leaves into the infuser filling the air with a delightful aroma. Taking the kettle of gently boiling water again from the stove’s burner, she refilled the teapot.

“There. Now we’ll let it steep for six minutes then give it a try. Are you ready?”

Nana smiled, visibly happy to be Maddie’s guinea pig as she practiced her new skills. “Ready when you are.”

Maddie picked up one of the delicately painted teacups. “Aren’t these beautiful?”

“They truly are. Who could have known that my little hobby, collecting teacups from around the world, would some day come in handy for you like this?”

“Are you sure you’re okay with us using them? You know there’s a good chance a few might get chipped or broken.”

“Good heavens, yes. What good are they stored away in the attic or collecting dust around here? And a chip here and there only adds character—to teacups and old ladies,” she mused, pointing to her useless left arm.

“You’re a character, all right. I’ve known that my whole life,” Maddie teased.

“I’m only trying to keep up with you, young lady.” Nana laughed again, her crooked smile as enchanting as ever.

“I’ve got a couple dozen new ones on order from that little shop in Chawton. The place where I found that gorgeous cup and saucer I brought back with me?”

“I love the deep, rich shades of red on that one. Plus, you know I’m always partial to the ones with gold touches. It’s absolutely stunning.”

“Isn’t it though? Although the ones I’ve ordered are a variety—all different kinds. No two alike.”

“That makes each one so special.”

“Okay, okay, let’s get back to work here. Is your cup still warm? According to my research, the best ‘cuppa’ is one that is served in a warmed teacup.”

“Warmed and ready to go,” Nana obliged. “What flavor are we having today?”

“This is an English Breakfast Tea. Pour your cream first, Nana. That’s the proper way—before I pour the tea.”

“I know. I remember.” Nana poured a splash of cream into her cup then set the chilled creamer back on the table. “Hope we finish this before the workers get here. They’re like a bunch of bulls in a china shop.” She chuckled. “A real china shop, in this case.”

Nothing pleased Maddie more than the sound of her grandmother’s laughter.  Coming from one who could have chosen never to laugh again, it was music to her ears. She checked her watch. “Six minutes exactly. Any longer and we risk a bitter tea. That’s because the longer it steeps, the better the chance for Tannin to be extracted from the tea leaves. ‘Bitter stuff, that Tannin.’”

“I was wondering when the accent would show up,” Nana feigned.

“Hush. This is a Taylors of Harrogate tea. Their teas were voted Best Cup of Tea in England. I’ve decided to use them exclusively. And if I’ve done my homework correctly and made this pot to specifications, it should be superb. Utterly superb.”

“Yes, Eliza.”

“Only the best for our customers, right? Okay, here we go.”

Maddie poured from the hand-painted teapot, first into Nana’s cup, then into her own. Following each sip, they discussed the flavor and quality of the tea giving today’s sample two thumbs up. Maddie added their comments to the list of other flavors they’d sampled over the past week.

Finally, she sat back to read over her notes. “Seems we both enjoyed the Earl Grey, the English breakfast, the Lemon and Herb Tisane, and the Scottish Breakfast tea. I liked the Peppermint Tisane, you did not. You liked the Raspberry and Rosehip Tisane, I did not. And we both loved the Yorkshire Gold. And during the holidays we’ll offer the Spiced Christmas tea—remember how good it smelled?”

“My goodness, what a lot of teas to keep up with. How will your customers—”

“Our customers.”

“How will our customers know what to choose?”

“Lanie will include a description of each flavor we offer on a page in our menu. She’s already doing a mock-up for us. I’m hoping she’ll bring a rough draft when she stops by after work. I found some gorgeous watercolors of teacups and English gardens, that sort of thing, by an art student at UT. She was thrilled when I offered to pay her for the prints to use on our menu. We’ll write a blurb about her on the back. Remind me to show those to you later, will you?”

Nana pushed the lever to roll her chair back. “I will, but for now you must excuse me. I think I’ll go rest for awhile.”

“I’ll help you lie down,” Maddie followed, taking their cups to the sink.

“You’ll do no such thing. Gretchen will be happy to help me. Gretchen?” she called, rolling into the hall.

“Right here, Rachel. Ready for your morning nap?”

Maddie watched as the plump, cheerful nurse greeted Nana with a ready smile. In the weeks since her return from England, she’d come to love the newest member of their family. Gretchen’s warm personality made for a relaxed atmosphere despite the chaos of all the renovations. Maddie couldn’t imagine how they’d managed without her all these years.

“Sweet dreams, Nana. I’ll go over our sandwich menu with you after lunch, okay?”

“Howdy, Miss Cooper.”

“Oh!” Maddie turned as Brad Chapman walked through the back door. “Oh, hello, Brad—I didn’t hear the door open. You gave me a start! How are you this morning?”

Clearing the table, Maddie took a good look at her contractor. He was definitely a man to behold—tall, muscular, tanned, and unusually polite. Quite the gentleman, in fact.

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“Fine as well,” she answered playfully. “Would you like a cup of tea? I have a delightful English Breakfast tea that’s quite good.”

Brad’s face broadened in a smile. “That’s kind of you to ask, Miss Cooper. But no, I’ll have to pass. I want to finish that built-in hutch this morning before I start in here. The industrial refrigerator and stove should be delivered today.”

“Oh, that’s great! I can’t wait to see how they’re going to fit.”

“They’ll fit real good, Miss Cooper. You have my word. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll head on into the dining room to work. The rest of the crew should be here any minute.” He tipped his ball cap, a gesture she always found amusing, and disappeared into the hall.

Yes, Mr. Chapman, I do believe it’s time I arrange a little rendezvous for you with Miss Lanie Morgan . . .

As Maddie continued washing the dishes, she remembered how Lanie had scoffed at her the first time she mentioned setting the two of them up.

“Are you crazy? A guy like that? Interested in a girl like me? What are you, blind? Besides, Maddie, I think I may be falling in love with Jeff. He says, and I quote, he’s ‘crazy about me.’ Isn’t that incredible? And he writes the most romantic emails. I’ve saved every one of them. I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

“That’s because you’ve never met him!” Maddie recognized the love-struck look in Lanie’s eyes, and it made her shudder. She wasn’t about to let her best friend fall for some nerd permanently affixed to his computer. “C’mon, Lanie, don’t be ridiculous. Online romances are a joke. Brad Chapman is the real deal. Not to mention the fact that he’s here, not off in cyberspace oblivion. I mean, c’mon, Lanie. Have you looked at the guy?”

Maddie knew best, if only Lanie would listen to her! She’d initiated several “coincidental” meetings between Lanie and Brad, inviting her to stop by on the way home from work knowing Brad would still be working. She’d insist they sit down for a cup of tea together before he left. His deep voice and quick sense of humor always made for a good time. Gradually, over the course of time, Lanie had warmed to the idea, responding to Brad’s good manners and easy laugh.

No overtures of romance yet, but that will come if I do my part. Her mind wandered along a similar path until it landed right across the street.

And then there’s the elusive Dr. Grant. There’s got to be someone I can send his way. Maddie hadn’t seen much of her new neighbor. Occasionally she’d wave as he left the house for the campus. He had traded his crutches for a cane, still limping as he made his way down the sidewalk. Sometimes he returned her wave, but most often not. She had ventured over to visit him a couple of times, but he’d maintained the same wall of defense. Several times she’d left a basket of cookies or muffins on his porch table. She would send him an invitation for her grand opening, but doubted seriously he would show up. Unless . . . unless I can find someone to accompany the stodgy professor?

Maddie snapped out of her musings and dried her hands on her apron, acknowledging the smile on her face. Her thoughts skipped back to Lanie and Brad, the vision of a candlelit dinner . . .

“You ’n me, God. We’re quite a team.”

Several weeks later, Maddie crossed the commons of the UT campus headed for Perry-Castañeda Library. In an hour she would meet with Lanie on her lunch break to go over advertising copy for the tea room. Until then, she hoped to do some research about Chawton to verify what she’d learned while touring Jane Austen’s quaint English cottage. Knowing the library’s layout, she quickly made her way to the sixth floor which housed the English literature section.

Browsing the familiar shelves, she found a couple of books then looked for a table. As she rounded the corner, she was startled to see her neighbor seated at a long table, pouring over a thick volume beneath a green desk light.

“Why, hello Ian,” she greeted nonchalantly. Depositing her books across from him, she pulled out a chair and sat down.

Deep in thought, he finally looked up. “Oh, yes well, hello.” His eyes darted around, much like those of a trapped animal, then back to his book. Maddie noticed a blush creeping up his face. He sighed impatiently then grunted, “What brings you here, Miss Cooper?”

He remembered my name. “Just doing some research for my tea room. I’ve decided to name it The Chawton Tea Room in honor of—”

“For your beloved Miss Austen’s home in Chawton, just outside of Alton, Hampshire.” He never looked up, tossing the comment at her like discarded change. “Big surprise there.”

Maddie wasn’t sure what to make of it. You’re not going to provoke me, Ian Grant. “Regardless, I wanted to tell you I’ll be sending you an invitation once we’re ready to open. Probably sometime in early November.”

Ian turned a page, clearly attempting to ignore her.

“I hope you’ll join us. And, just so you know, you’re more than welcome to bring someone.”

Nothing.

“A friend. A date. Whatever.”

He leveled his eyes at her, shutting the thick volume with a loud thud. “A date? Miss Cooper, I am not—”

“Oh, why must you keep playing the martyr? I’ve apologized every way I know how. I’ve made every effort to show my remorse.” She paused for effect, then folded her hands on top of her open book. “I simply want to be friends. Is that too much to ask?” she added quietly.

“Why on earth would you care to be friends with me? Just because I’m residing across the lane from you does not demand we be chummy.”

Maddie pushed her hair out of her face. “Because I can sense your loneliness. I see the sadness in your eyes, and I want somehow to make you feel more at home here.”

Ian stood, grabbing his book. “Is that a proposition, Miss Cooper? You think I’m so lonely, I’d accept your company just so I won’t be ‘lonely’ anymore? You’re even more delusional than I thought.”

“No, wait! That’s not what I meant at all!” Maddie whispered loudly, standing as he started to walk away. “Please! This is exactly what I’m talking about—why must you still be so angry with me? And why must you reject my gesture of friendship—and that’s all it is, Ian. Nothing more, I assure you.”

He paused, then turned to look at her. Maddie felt his blue eyes bore into her soul, but she fought the urge to look away. Why oh why must he be so handsome? As he stepped toward her, she felt her heart pounding inside her chest.

Finally, standing mere inches from her, he opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. His eyes searched hers as if conflicted. Then his stern countenance softened before he broke eye contact and blew out another sigh. “Look, Miss Cooper—”

“Maddie.”

A sad smile attempted to reach his eyes. “I don’t wish to be rude. But I’m not . . . you see, it’s simply that . . .” He exhaled, standing straighter. The vulnerability vanished. “I appreciate the invitation, but I’m much too busy. Good day.”

She watched him limp away, somewhat relieved to see he no longer used a cane, but disappointed in the exchange. Oh, what must I do to reach you, Ian Grant? And how can I help heal your wounded heart if you won’t break down that wall and let me in?

Let someone else in, that is.

Chapter 7

Ian Grant gathered his papers from the podium. “Test on chapter eight tomorrow. Papers on Samuel Johnson are due next Friday. And yes, that is the day after Halloween, but I’ll make no exceptions for hung-over ghosts and goblins. Consider yourself warned. Good day.” His students filed out of the lecture hall, the usual cluster of those wishing for his attention gathering around him. Normally, he would try to spark the students in debate about his lecture, but today he had plans.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I’ll be available in the conference room for further discussion after three o’clock this afternoon. Now if you’ll make way, please.”

The chatter followed him out of the classroom and down the hall, gradually dissipating as he stepped into his office. His assistant, Jennifer Simms, stood as he rushed by her desk.

“Dr. Martin called. He says they’re ready for you over at the luncheon. And here are your phone messages.”

After depositing his briefcase and books on his desk, he whisked back through the outer office. “Just put those on my desk, please. And give Howard a ring. Tell him I’ll be there in less than five.”

“Yes, Dr. Grant.”

“I’ll be back around two-thirty. See you then.”

He headed across the commons toward the administrative building. Howard had insisted Ian attend the luncheon for faculty members in the English department. Not one for social gatherings, Ian would have preferred his usual sandwich in his office, but Howard would not be deterred.

Relieved to be rid of the cane, Ian hurried his pace despite the pesky limp. His foot was still a tad tender, but much improved. He hoped the doctor would give him clearance to start running again soon. He had missed his morning runs dreadfully.

Ian made his way to the private dining room in the rear of the building on the first floor. He could hear the clinking of silver on fine china and the low murmur typical of academicians in social settings.

“Ian! Over here, my good man. Nice to have you join us.” Howard Martin closed the space between them, extending his hand.

“Thank you, Howard. You promised a good meal, so here I am,” Ian teased, shaking hands. “As long as it’s not one of those ghastly casseroles so popular in the cafeteria, I’m a happy chap.”

“Not a chance,” Martin chuckled. “Prime rib that will melt in your mouth. But first I want to introduce you to some of our other new staff members.”

Ian played the game, exchanging pleasantries. Some were names familiar to him, others not. Soon they were all seated and lunch was served. The food was top shelf as promised, much to Ian’s surprise. Even the generous slice of New York cheesecake caught his fancy, urging him to leave room for a taste.

Halfway through his meal, Howard interrupted the quiet conversation, scooting his chair back and stepping toward the entrance behind Ian. “Ah, there she is—Melissa, how good of you to come!”

“Howard! So good to see you again! How is Roberta?”

Ian stopped chewing, his fork suspended in mid-air. It can’t be. He tried to swallow, lowering the utensil to his plate, then attempted to wipe his mouth with the linen napkin. Ian braced himself as the chatter neared him. Only then did he notice the empty seat across the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce our new interim professor who will be taking Dr. Smith’s classes until he is able to return from the Anderson Clinic. This is Dr. Melissa Phillips, formerly of Vanderbilt University, bringing us her expertise on women authors of the eighteenth century.”

The men at the table stood as Dr. Phillips followed Howard to the empty seat next to him. “Please, gentlemen, have a seat. I apologize for my late arrival. There was a nasty pileup on the interstate and it simply couldn’t be helped.”

Ian stood half-way, the prime rib lodged in his throat refusing to go down. Once seated again, he reached for the crystal glass of iced water, praying for relief and avoiding eye contact.

“Dr. Phillips, I’m sure you know many of your colleagues around the table. Allow me to make formal introductions.” Howard went around the table, thankfully starting the other direction, giving Ian time to compose himself. He felt the heat on his face.

“And finally, Dr. Ian Grant, our esteemed visiting professor on loan to us from Oxford University.”

“Ian?”

He coughed, finally clearing his throat, then lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Melissa, nice to see you.”

“What a surprise—I had no idea you were here in Austin. I’m—it’s nice to see you again.”

“Yes, well. Here we are.” The heat continued to scorch his face. Smile. Force the smile. “I too had no idea you were joining the faculty here.” He pinned Howard with a look to kill.

“Oh dear,” Howard groaned, his eyes darting back and forth between them, obviously remembering too late the former relationship between his two guests. “That is to say, I, uh, yes, well. You see, Dr. Phillips was gracious enough to shorten her sabbatical to cover Dr. Smith’s classes. We have no idea how long his chemotherapy treatment will last, and since Melissa was in the area working on her new book, we were fortunate to convince her to take a couple of his classes." He stopped rambling for a moment then added, "Well now, isn’t this nice?”

The conversation resumed, others dominating Melissa’s attention, much to Ian’s relief. His heart pounded, the hot anger quickly racing through his veins. Teeth clenched, he fought the eruption of old memories and still-open wounds. For the remainder of the meal, he picked at his food, chastising himself for letting her affect him this way after all these years.

The tall pillar of cheesecake remained untouched.

Maddie gazed around her new kitchen. The freshly painted walls in a soft yellow called Butter Cream created the perfect, soothing ambience she would need for her culinary efforts. The white lace curtains allowed plenty of sunshine to stream through the pane-glass windows. She ran her hand over the cool marble countertop on the huge center island, dreaming of the delicacies she would create here. Appreciating the new cabinets banking the walls, she realized what a miracle Brad had pulled off in just a matter of weeks.

“Brad!” She looked at her watch then grabbed the phone, quickly dialing Lanie’s number.

“Lanie, where are you? He’ll be back in just a few minutes! I thought you were going to be here for tea?”

“I’m coming, I’m sorry! I was talking with Jeff and lost track of time.”

Maddie felt her teeth grinding. “Lanie, will you forget about him? I really think Brad likes you. So hurry up! I want you here before he gets back. Get your sweet bum over here!”

She hung up the phone, again irritated by the mention of the California nerd. I’m finally getting you and Brad connected and here you go, wasting more time with that stupid geek. When will you ever learn to trust me, girl?

Her gentle nudges to bring Lanie and Brad together had gone according to plan. She’d actually been hearing less about Jeff and more about the handsome contractor from her friend. “I have to admit he’s fun to be with,” Lanie had admitted on more than one occasion. “He’s got the funniest sense of humor. And is he buff or what?”

Maddie observed the growing excitement in Lanie’s eyes each time she happened to stop by when he was done for the day. She loved watching her respond to his impeccable manners. Their laughter over tea or lemonade filled Maddie’s heart with joy. Just a matter of time, those two.

Half an hour later, Maddie heard Lanie’s voice at the front door.

“Maddie, I’m here! Sorry I’m late. I was on fumes and had to stop for gas which took way longer than it should have. Maddie? Hello?”

“Back here, Lanie. Come see my new appliances!”

Squealing like a school girl, Maddie greeted her best friend with a hug. “Look! Our refrigerator and stove were just delivered! Aren’t they unbelievable?”

“Oh wow, they’re huge—you could store a side of beef in there.”

“Well, hi Lanie. How are you?”

Lanie lit up at the sound of Brad’s voice. “Fine, Brad. How about you?”

Maddie watched her take in Brad’s appearance. His worn jeans fit him like a glove as did the white t-shirt stretched across his chest. Show me any computer geek who looks this good.

Brad tipped his ball cap and started for the door. “I’m good. But if you two will excuse me, I need to be going.”

“No! Brad, wait,” Maddie said. “I was hoping you’d have tea with us today.”

“Thank you, but I have a meeting with an architect in about an hour. I appreciate the offer, though. See you tomorrow. Bye, Lanie,” he said, giving her a wink before closing the door.

“Did you see that?” Maddie whispered. “He winked at you! Lanie, hurry—run out there and catch him before he leaves!”

“Why? What would I say?” She peeked out the door.

“Invite him to meet you at Starbucks later. Tell him you have something you want to talk to him about. Anything! Just go. Go!” Maddie pushed her out the door then dashed to the open window overlooking Brad’s truck. She hid out of sight, peeking through the curtains.

“Brad! Wait up!”

Maddie watched as Lanie hurried down the driveway, catching up to him just as he climbed in the cab of his pickup.

“What’s up?” he asked, tossing his cap on the passenger seat and ruffling his hair.

Ask him, Lanie. Ask him. Be brave, girlfriend!

“I was just wondering, would you—well, if you’re not too busy sometime, could we—could I buy you a cup of coffee at Starbucks later tonight? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Atta girl! You did it!

“I’m afraid not.”

Maddie’s heart sunk. What?

“Oh, that’s okay,” Lanie answered. “No problem. Just thought I’d—”

“I can’t let you buy, but I’d be happy to meet you later at Starbucks. My treat.”

Maddie shot her fists in the air. Yessss!

“How does eight-thirty work for you?”

Lanie smiled, laughing her response. “Eight-thirty would be lovely. See you there.”

Maddie danced a jig around the kitchen island. “Do I know a match when I see it? Am I a genius or what? Move over, Emma Woodhouse. You have met your match.” She laughed out loud. “Met your match. Get it? Oh I’m good. I’m really good.”

Ian wrung out the white washcloth, its steam swirling into the air. He placed it back across his forehead then sunk deeper into the tub. The whirlpool jets pounded his body, matching the rhythm of his throbbing temples. He shook his head, trying to block it all out. Trying to wipe her from his memory . . . all over again.

Another pounding woke him from his drowsy melancholy. He turned off the jets, listening. Someone was knocking on the door, the doorbell chiming repeatedly. “Go away!” Still the knocking continued, the doorbell incessant.

“All right, all right. I’m coming.” He toweled off then wrapped his robe around him before heading down the hall, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. He stopped cold. Melissa stood on the other side of the door, her face visible through the beveled glass inset.

He turned around. “I’m not home.”

The knocking continued. “Ian, let me in. We have to talk.”

“No we don’t. I’m not here. Remember?”

“Ian!”

“Halloween’s not until next week. You’ll have to come back.”

“Stop acting like a child and open this door.”

How dare she! He bolted for the door, throwing it open. “What could you possibly want?”

“I—just let me in. We have to talk.”

“I don’t think so.”

She lifted her chin in defiance, pushing the door open wider then stepping by him. “Stop this ridiculous behavior. We can at least be civil toward one another.”

“Can we?”

“Of course we can. And for heaven’s sake, close the door. You’re in a bath robe in case you haven’t noticed.”

Without breaking eye contact, he shoved the door. The resulting slam felt good as he strode past her into the living room. “So what is it you want to say to me, Dr. Halston—or wait, Phillips, is it now?” Ian claimed the easy chair beside the fireplace, propping his foot on the ottoman. “Married, are we?”

“Five years. With a four-year old daughter named Isabelle.” She walked across the room, placed her purse on the sofa, then took a seat.

“How nice. Isn’t that just lovely. And here I thought all this time you didn’t much like the idea of marriage. What with all that commitment rubbish and what not. Silly, silly me. I’m so very happy for you. In fact, if I wasn’t so busy, I’d ask to see pictures, but alas, I just don’t have the time.” He drilled her with his eyes, hoping to make her squirm.

She studied her fingers. He didn’t miss the large oval diamond on her left hand. “Ian, I never meant to—”

“Spare me. I don’t want to hear it. Not a word, Melissa.”

She looked up again with pleading eyes. “You never responded after I sent you all those letters. I hoped you would, though I know it must have been painful.”

“Painful? You left me standing at the altar! In front of all our friends and family, standing there like a complete and utter fool. And you think it might have been painful? Your mother appears at the back of the church only to say you’ve ‘changed your mind’ and there won’t be a wedding after all. I haven’t a clue in the world why anyone should think it might be painful for me? Least of all YOU!”

“Ian, calm down and listen to me.”

“No. I will not listen to you.”

“Fine. Don’t listen. But there are things I must say to you. I couldn’t marry you. Our engagement was my parents’ wish and not mine. Surely you know that. The college professor marrying the daughter of the chancellor. I tried to deny my feelings, tried to make everyone happy, but in the end, I couldn’t go through with it. The dress, the flowers, the music—suddenly it all hit me—it was nothing but a charade to please everyone but me. I adored you, Ian, truly I did. But I didn’t love you. I mean, not in that way. It wouldn’t have been fair to you. Not fair at all.”

He stared into the fire, refusing to look at her.

“You never read my letters, did you?”

He shook his head, despising the sting in his eyes.

“You must have hated me all these years. I can’t blame you, of course. What I did was deplorable.”

“Quite.”

“That’s why I was so surprised to see you today. I thought you surely hated all Americans after what I did. Yet here you were, back teaching in the states again.”

She stood and walked toward the front windows. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m in no position to do that after all these years.” She turned to face him. “But here we are, both in the same town, working on the same campus. In Texas of all places. There must be some way we can at least be cordial to one another.”

The grandfather clock ticked quietly. He closed his eyes, willing them to clear. After several moments, he realized she was seated again across from him.

“Ian.”

Her voice, graveled with emotion, pricked at his heart. He inhaled loudly, pulling his feet off the ottoman. “Not to worry, Dr. Phillips. I assure you I’ll remain completely professional at all times.” He stood, walking toward the foyer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my bath water is getting cold.”

She followed him to the door, pausing as she neared him. He leveled his gaze at her, steeling the storm of emotions inside.

“Ian? Please?” she whispered, a lone tear cascading down her face.

“Good night, Melissa.”

The silence was palpable. Finally, she reached out her hand against his face then pressed a long kiss against his cheek. With that, she left, descending the porch stairs into the night.

Chapter 8

Maddie watched the car pull away from the curb in front of Bradford House. Sitting on her porch, she pulled her sweater around her against the evening chill, and reached for her cup of tea. Her pulse quickened, replaying the scene in her mind. She’d felt like an intruder when the door across the street had opened. But had she moved to go inside, she surely would have been noticed. The backlighting of the foyer chandelier had cast Ian and his lady friend in silhouettes as if some Hollywood director had created the romantic effect.

She fought the desire to be happy for the professor, hoping he might have some secret love after all. But there was something about the exchange that told her otherwise.

He was in his bath robe. Rather familiar apparel for a mere acquaintance. Who is she? And why didn’t he respond when she kissed him?

The cell phone in her sweater pocket vibrated. “Hello?”

“Maddie, you won’t believe what has happened. Jeff and I had a horrible fight. I told him I was going to meet Brad for coffee, and he got so upset! Really upset. What am I going to do?”

Lanie’s sniffles filled her ear. Maddie looked at her watch. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be meeting Brad right now?”

“I know. I was just getting ready to leave when Jeff Skyped me. Oh why did I even tell him? I had no idea he would mind. And now I may have lost him forever. Maddie, I can’t see Brad right now. I’m a wreck!”

Lanie blew her nose, causing Maddie to distance the tiny cell phone from her ear. “No! You have to go! Lanie, Brad is probably already there waiting for you. And besides, if Jeff is such a wimp that a little thing like coffee with a friend upsets him, do you really want a relationship with someone like that? Of course not. Now, go wash your face, get in your car and get over to Starbucks. Go!”

Maddie turned off her phone, slipping it back in her pocket. “Oh Lord, what am I going to do with these people? If they’d just listen to me—to You, I mean.”

“Lanie! I was beginning to worry I’d misunderstood when we were to meet. Hey, are you okay?” Brad stood, pulling the bistro chair out for her.

She took a seat, avoiding his eyes. “Um, sure. I just, I think maybe I have a little cold coming on or something. Or maybe allergies. I must look awful.”

“Not at all. I was just about to order a cappuccino. Would you like one?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”

Brad placed their order at the counter, smiling back at her a couple of times while waiting for the barista to make their drinks. Lanie used the time to sneak a peek in her compact, applying a dab of powder beneath her eyes to hide the redness. Brad returned a few minutes later, setting their drinks on the table.

“Thank you." She popped the lid off her grande cup. "It smells wonderful.”

“It’ll probably keep us up all night, but who cares, right?”

Lanie tried to laugh. “Right. Who cares?”

Brad took a sip, then wiped the whipped cream from his upper lip with a napkin. “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Lanie looked into his sable brown eyes, studied his broad smile and strong jaw line, and wondered what he must think of her. He was strikingly handsome. He’s probably Mr. October on some calendar of hunky Texas construction guys. What’s he doing here with someone like me? Maddie, why did you put me up to this?

“Lanie?”

“Oh, sorry. Um, well—wait, didn’t you say you had something to ask me too? You go first. I insist.” Good thinking. Buy some time.

“All right, if that’s your preference. See, the thing is, I’ve been working for your friend Maddie now for almost two months. And I’ve noticed, no matter what time of day or night I’m there, she never seems to have—well, what I mean is—is Maddie seeing anyone?”

“What?” Lanie blinked.

“Is Maddie dating anyone right now? Because if she’s not, I was thinking about asking her out.”

“Maddie? You want to ask Maddie out?”

His smile vanished. “Why? Is there something wrong with that? Is she married or something?”

“No! Maddie’s not married!” Lanie heard the harsh response leave her lips. Deep breath. Think. Think! He’s not interested in me. He likes Maddie. How could I have been so blind?

“So . . . is there some reason I shouldn’t ask her out? Do you think she’d go if I did?”

Lanie stared at him. Same beautiful brown eyes. Same masculine jaw line. Same kind smile. What an idiot I am. To even think he might go for the plain and simple. Oh no! Someone with looks like his? Of course he’d fall for someone beautiful. I’m such an idiot!

Lanie stood up, grabbing her purse from the table. She forced a smile. “Yes, Brad. I think Maddie would love to go out with you. In a heartbeat! But I just remembered I, uh, I left a candle burning in my apartment. Don’t want to burn down the building.” She swallowed a sob. “Thank you for the cappuccino. Really.” She dashed for the door, biting her lip to hold back the dam inside.

“But Lanie, wait! What did you want to talk to me about?”

“He WHAT?!”

Maddie jumped to her feet. Lanie’s words slammed into her like a freight train. “You can’t be serious! He asked you about me? Oh no, no! This is all wrong!”

Lanie collapsed on the sofa, burying her face in her hands. “This is all your fault. I knew better than to listen to you!” She looked up, her tear-streaked face breaking Maddie’s heart. “All these afternoon teas together, all these coincidental encounters and—” She blew her nose into her tissue.

“Oh Lanie, I feel terrible!”

Lanie honked again into a fresh tissue. “You feel terrible? Oh, please. Pardon me if I have no sympathy for you right now.”

Maddie slid beside her on the sofa, wrapping her arm over her shoulder. “No, Lanie, I didn’t mean that. Well, yes, of course I did! This is all my fault. I should never have pushed you into something you weren’t ready for.”

Lanie pushed away from her. “Something I wasn’t ready for? No, Maddie. I will never be ready for someone to manipulate my feelings like that. I came so close to spilling my guts, asking Brad if he’d like to go out some time. Asking him if he would consider dating me. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that would have been for me? I never ask guys out! You know that. But because you kept pushing and arranging all these happenstance meetings, and telling me how even a gorgeous man like that ‘can see a good heart’ like mine—wasn’t that how you put it? Because we both know a guy like that could never be attracted to a wall flower like me, right?”

“Lanie, no! I never said that. You’ve got it all wrong!” Maddie cried openly, her own tears spilling done her cheeks. “You’re my best friend in the whole world! I would never do anything to hurt you! You must surely know that?”

Lanie stood up and stomped across the room. “Never hurt me? Well, let’s see. If I have my accounting correct tonight, this makes two relationships you’ve ruined for me. Not just Brad, who was obviously never interested in me in the first place, but let’s not forget Jeff. Maddie, you may think he’s some computer geek, but the fact is, I care for him. And up until tonight, he cared for me. In fact, I hadn’t told you this because I knew you didn’t want to hear it. But last week, he told me he loved me. Imagine that. Some guy out there—loves me!” Lanie sobbed. “At least he did until tonight.

“So excuse me, Madeline Cooper, if I take a permanent pass on your so-called friendship. I’ve had just about all of you I can stand! I am DONE with you!” She slammed the door, rattling the windows and pictures hanging on the wall.

“Good heavens! What happened?”

The whir of Nana’s wheelchair rounded the corner. “Oh Nana, I’ve made such a horrible mess of things. Lanie will never speak to me again as long as she lives.”

The whole miserable story spilled out through Maddie’s tears, her grandmother listening patiently until there was nothing left to say. She reached for Maddie’s hand, brought it to her lips and kissed it gently.

“Madeline, it’s time you and I had a little heart to heart.”

“I’m such a wretch!”

“Yes, you are. We all are from time to time. The question is, what are you going to do about it? Will you keep making the same mistakes over and over, or will you learn from them?”

“But all I ever meant to do was help Lanie find happiness. She’s never been in a serious relationship before. Doesn’t she deserve a little happiness?”

“Did she ask you to find happiness for her, dear?”

Maddie wiped her eyes with the embroidered handkerchief her grandmother had loaned her. “No, but she never would.”

“And correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t I recall Lanie lighting up like a Christmas tree each time she mentions this fellow she met on her computer? A fellow Jane Austen admirer? Why, they must have so much in common. So many things to talk about.”

“You don’t understand. She’s never met him. He’s probably some ugly, wimpy little nerd who can’t find love any other way.”

“Oh, so you’ve met him?’

“No, of course not.”

The silence passed between them until Maddie finally looked up at her grandmother, realizing she was trying to make a point. “What?”

“Sweetheart, the Bible says, ‘Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.’”

“But that’s just it! I felt God calling me to this ministry, helping people find love. And I’ve prayed every step of the way. We’ve had a partnership, of sorts, me and God.”

“Have you now.” It wasn’t a question, but a spoken doubt.

Maddie thought back through the past weeks, remembering her talks with the Lord. She quickly realized that’s all they were. She talked to God, mostly telling Him what her plans were, rarely asking about His.

Nana reached out to push back the dampened hair from Maddie’s face. “I’ll leave you to think about that awhile. And let me suggest one more thing. Perhaps you need to give Lanie a little credit. She’s a bright girl. She’ll know love when she finds it. Without your help.”

Chapter 9

Ian slapped his alarm clock, groaning at the red digits. Six o’clock. Suddenly he remembered why he’d planned to get up so early. He jumped out of bed and dressed quickly in his sweats and running shoes. After a swig of orange juice, he headed for the front door, anxious to stretch out his muscles and commence his long-awaited run.

Just inside the door, a large manila envelope rested on the floor just below the mail slot. Ian clenched his jaw, seeing his name in the familiar script. Can’t you just leave well enough alone?

He tore open the envelope, dumping its contents onto the table beside the door. Two identical FOB keys on a BMW key ring fell out. “What in the . . . good heavens!” He opened the door, stunned to find the black Beamer he had bought Melissa as a wedding present sitting in the driveway. “Now I know she’s lost her mind.”

Unfolding the letter, his eyes raced through the paragraphs.

Dear Ian,

I had hoped we might find some peace at long last, but I’m afraid I’ve only caused you more unhappiness. Unfortunately, we have unfinished business and I know no other way to handle it.

Once I heard you’d returned to England after I called off the wedding, I had no idea how to return the car. When you refused to answer my letters, I finally decided to put the car in storage back in Nashville and deal with it later. There it remained until our recent move here. My husband never understood why I didn’t just sell it, but I knew it wasn’t mine to sell.

The enclosed papers make it yours again, along with the keys. If you’ll do nothing else, please accept the car that rightfully belongs to you.

There’s something else I must tell you. Not long ago, I gave my heart to the Lord, Ian. It has made all the difference in my life. But one thing I have learned is that unforgiveness will destroy you. As the saying goes, “To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”

I pray you will find it in your heart to forgive me, Ian, whether we ever speak again or not. God alone can help you let go of the bitterness you hold against me and learn to love again.

As God is my witness, that is my prayer for you.

Melissa

Ian dropped the letter on the table and stepped outside. Taking a seat on top of the porch stairs, he stared at the pristine automobile. A rush of memories coursed through his mind tugging his emotions along for the ride. The internal battles he’d fought. The mind games. The burning heat of bitterness poisoning his every thought.

So many years. So many wasted years.

And then Melissa’s words repeated themselves. To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you. And without a moment’s hesitation, he knew. He just knew. The time had finally come.

As his feet pounded the sidewalks of Hyde Park, Ian reflected on those lost years. The blasted restlessness that forever ate away at him. The hopelessness that covered him like a hot blanket on a blistering summer’s day. And the brusqueness for which he’d become known, a characteristic so utterly unfamiliar to his personality—at least until Melissa so publicly humiliated him. It had settled upon him so completely, he’d been unable to shake it. All these years later, it still plagued him, like the all-encompassing role of an actor playing the part of an ill-tempered grouch. But unlike an actor merely playing a part, he couldn’t let go of the stranger he’d become.

As he turned the corner and trekked his way through the quaint neighborhood, Ian realized something was going on inside him. Quite an odd feeling, actually. He pushed himself harder, ignoring the slight remnant of pain in his foot, and allowed himself to search his heart for answers.

Could it be Melissa was right? Had theirs had been an engagement of social peer pressure and not a legitimate result of true love? No, of course not. I loved her dearly. With all my heart.

But even as the thought marched through his head, he knew it wasn’t completely true. He cared for her. Deeply. There was never any question of that. And perhaps at some point that affection grew into love. But was it the kind of love that would have lasted a lifetime? Was it worthy of the vow he nearly took—til death do us part?

A strange ache washed over him. He slowed to a trot, wondering why he felt this way. Then it hit him.

Good heavens. It’s true.

And just that fast, he knew. Without a trace of doubt, he knew Melissa was right. They had almost married for all the wrong reasons.

If she hadn’t been the chancellor’s daughter, I never would have asked her out in the first place. If we hadn’t dazzled the university community as the “perfect couple,” I would never have proposed.

Ouch. The realization smarted like a slap in the face. Sure, Melissa was beautiful. And smart. And funny. But she was also a daddy’s girl. And Daddy still ruled, no matter where she might have roosted. At the time, the attention and notoriety made it all intoxicating and appealing. At least on some level. And if he was completely honest, he’d fantasized about climbing the academic ladder and one day succeeding his father-in-law as chancellor of prestigious Vanderbilt University.

But now, with the cleansing clarity of unabashed truth rushing through his veins, he knew he never could have lived in Dr. Halston’s domineering shadow. Perhaps the marriage would have lasted a year or two. But only if he became a dutiful, family puppet.

He slowed, coming to a stop, more winded than he’d been in years. He leaned over, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, imagining Melissa in her wedding gown that fated day. He pictured her in the bridal suite at the church, standing before a full-length mirror. He watched as her eyes, hidden beneath the veil, slowly tracked upward until she faced herself directly in the reflection.

She knew. She knew . . .

And she couldn’t do it to me.

She loved me enough to let me go.

Ian stood, then stumbled against a nearby tree as a sob escaped from his throat, catching him completely off guard. Dear God, she knew. She did it for me. And all these years I’ve hated her, despised her for embarrassing me. Oh God, forgive me. How did I get it all so wrong?

He slid down the tree, landing in a heap on the dying grass. He dropped his head in his hands and felt the tears fall. He couldn’t find the words, but somehow he knew God heard his heart. Filled with shame, he could only ask for forgiveness, over and over. For hating her. For wasting so many years of his life filled with that hate. And for spreading a little of it on everyone he met.

To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you. The words echoed through his soul again. But this time, they felt less like an indictment and more like a soothing balm.

He leaned his head back against the tree, looking up through the almost-bare branches. A breeze danced through the remaining leaves, seeming to shake them just for good measure. As he squinted against the morning sun, he watched one of the shriveled, surviving leaves give up the fight and let go. It floated downward, first this way then that, finally coming to rest just beside him.

A sign. A vivid picture.

He’d let go too. After all these years, he’d finally let go. He was no longer a prisoner of his own making anymore.

He was free.

He picked up the leaf and twirled it by the stem, uttering a prayer of thanks. It had been a long, long time since he’d prayed. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time. But in his new-found freedom, he felt surprisingly close to the God he’d ignored for so many decades. As if the Almighty Himself was listening to every word he prayed. Especially the ones he eventually whispered as he invited God back into his life.

Half an hour and a phone call later, Ian Grant experienced the incomparable sweet release of complete forgiveness and a new beginning.

Maddie and Lanie kept a cool distance in the days following their heated exchange. Maddie tried several times to apologize, but Lanie always cut her off. “We can maintain a professional partnership, Maddie, but our friendship is over. I’ll do whatever you need me to do for the grand opening. But please honor my wishes and don’t confuse our professional relationship with our former friendship.” They had slid into an odd place, one Maddie could barely tolerate. But with only four days left before they opened, it would have to do.

Late one afternoon, Brad hung around the kitchen. “Maddie, do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” she answered, pushing the curls out of her face and tucking them back under her bandana. “What can I do for you?”

He leaned against the island, running his hand along the smooth granite edge. “I was just wondering if you’d consider having dinner with me sometime. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, and I thought maybe—”

“Oh, Brad, that’s really sweet.” She turned her back to him, busying herself with the dirty stack of cookie sheets in the oversized sink. “But y’know, with the opening coming up, and everything I still have to do, I just wouldn’t possibly have time.”

“Oh,” he said, then paused. When he didn’t say more, she turned her head to see what he was doing. He shuffled his feet then folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I can understand that. In fact, I assumed you’d need some time. Of course, I meant after the opening. I suppose I should have said that, huh? Once you’ve had some time to get used to your new routine. No rush.”

Maddie dried her hands on her apron and turned around to face him again. “Well, uh . . . the thing is . . .” She stopped cold, her eyes glued to his lazy smile that warmed his brown eyes. She caught herself staring, studying the tiny flecks of gold in those brown eyes. What is wrong with me?! She coughed, continuing to mentally scold herself.

He reached across the space between them, brushing the same renegade curl out of her eyes. When his fingers touched her brow, a shot of electricity bolted through her. Where did THAT come from?

“Maddie, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to you. In fact, I’ve been trying to get the nerve to ask you out for quite a while now. Guess I’m just a little slow when it comes to that sort of thing.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “But Brad, I just thought maybe you and Lanie—”

“Me and Lanie? What gave you that idea?”

She opened her eyes again. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just fancy myself a bit of a matchmaker.” She grabbed a hand towel, absently wiping a phantom spot on the counter. “I just thought the two of you might have a lot in common. Or something. And Lanie is such a sweetheart, I just thought maybe—”

He scratched a spot above his right eyebrow. “Wait a second. Did you . . . was that night Lanie met me at Starbucks—was that your doing? Did you put her up to that?”

She focused on another spot on the countertop. “Well, see, I thought—”

“Oh no,” he groaned. He let his head fall back, shaking it. “She said she had something to ask me. She was going to ask me out, wasn’t she?” He leveled his gaze at her.

“Um, well actually—”

“Maddie?”

She dropped the hand towel and stuffed her fidgeting hands in her apron pockets. “Yes. Yes, I suggested she talk to you. But all I did was give her a little nudge. Brad, she was really hoping you’d agree to start going out with her.”

“She was hoping? Or you were hoping? Which is it? Because I really never got that impression from her. Not once.”

They stared at each other until Maddie could no longer stand it. “Okay, I was hoping. But it’s only because I know Lanie so well! We’ve known each other our whole lives. And she’s such an amazing person. But guys never give her a chance because she’s . . . because she doesn’t come across that interested, y’know? She’s more into books and computers. Way too interested in computers, if you ask me.”

He let out a loud sigh. “Good grief, Maddie. Do you know what you’ve done?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “That night at Starbucks, before she had a chance to ask me out, I asked her about you. I asked if she thought you might go out with me.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know? She told you?”

“We tell each other everything. We’re best friends. Or at least we were. She hasn’t spoken to me since that night. Well, not in anything but a professional capacity, anyway. And only when she has to concerning the business.”

He shook his head again. “Wow. She’s that upset about it? I wondered why I hadn’t seen her around much.”

“Oh,” Maddie croaked, avoiding his eyes on her. “Well, it wasn’t just that.”

“What? What else have you done?” He stepped closer, definitely invading her comfort zone.

“Well, the thing is, she was already kind of involved with someone else.”

“What? Why would you even think of putting her up to ask me out if she was already dating someone else?”

She blew out a huff in frustration. “Because she wasn’t ‘dating’ someone else. He’s just a cyber-boyfriend. And that’s all it is. She’s never even met him. She Skypes with him all the time, but what kind of a relationship comes from that? Besides, he’s a geek. He’s not her type.”

“You’ve met him but she hasn’t?”

“Why does everyone just assume I’ve met him? No, of course not. He lives in California.”

“Yet you know enough about him to know he’s not your best friend’s ‘type’?”

She stole a quick peek at him, unnerved by the disappointment registering in those brown eyes. For a split second, she tried to figure out what cologne he was wearing, then she realized it wasn’t the time or place for that sort of thing. Get a grip, Maddie. You’re in hot water here.

He turned, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter as he slowly made his way to the back door. “I don’t know, Maddie. Seems to me you should mind your own business and let others figure out their own lives.”

“I know. It’s just a character flaw, I guess. Nana lectures me about it all the time.”

He opened the back door without turning around. “Maybe you should start listening to her,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him.

Maddie bit her lip, wondering why she couldn’t get it right. Brad had everything in the world to offer. What was that cologne? He smelled so good tonight. And that smile. I could get lost in that smile for a couple centuries. And what was it about those eyes . . .

So why didn’t she just agree to have dinner with him? Why wasn’t she interested in him like that? She didn’t have a clue. Of course, now that she’d blown it, he’d probably never even think to ask her out.

In the days that followed, he was the perfect gentleman. Distant, but polite, just as he’d always been. For that she was sadly grateful.

Even if she didn’t deserve it.

Chapter 10

As the opening neared, Jonathan became a fixture at the house, helping with even the smallest details. Maddie watched the growing fondness in his eyes for her grandmother, but she clung to the scriptures Nana had shared with her, knowing God was more than able to make a match if there was one to be made.

But Ian Grant was another story.

She spotted the mystery woman’s car in the Bradford House driveway more times than she cared to think about, though she never saw her again. The situation confounded her. The temptation to walk across the street and knock on that door gnawed at her. Who is she and what is she to you anyway, Dr. Grant?

Of course it was none of her business. What troubled her even more was the wound it had left in her heart, an ache that bothered her every time she saw that car. But why? What concern is it to me?

Now, on this unusually cold November morning, as she unloaded the groceries from her car, the sight of that car infuriated her. At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning? It’s a disgrace.

“Good morning!”

Maddie turned to see Ian slowing from a run, approaching her driveway.

“Hello.” She headed for the porch with her groceries, aware of his winded breath right behind her.

“I thought you should know the doctor has given me a clean slate. Says the foot is as good as new.”

She turned to face him just as he pulled the hem of his sweatshirt up to wipe his face. Goodness. Who knew such a build was hiding beneath that crabby-professor façade he has going? She turned before he could see her blush.

“Feels great to run again.”

“That’s nice. I’m happy for you.” She continued up the steps, then set the bags on the porch.

“I understand your tea room will be opening soon.” He looked up at her, his eyes narrowed against the morning sun. The mere sight of him irritated her.

“Yes, we plan to open Wednesday afternoon. I mailed the invitations this morning. You should be receiving one, regardless of our previous conversation.”

“Good,” he responded eagerly. “I’m glad you reconsidered. Well, then. I shall look forward to it.” He smiled.

He’s smiling? Maddie studied him, perplexed by the transformation on his face. And he wants to come to my grand opening? What happened to your stuffed shirt, Dr. Grant? At the dry cleaners?

“Good. We’ll be pleased to have you.”

“Excellent. Until then.” This time the smile lit up his whole face. A new look for him.

He tossed a wave then jogged across the street and ran up the steps two at a time. Maddie abruptly turned her back. The last thing she wanted to see was a welcome-home kiss at the front door from his mistress. Instead, she lugged her bags inside and slammed the door.

And wondered why she wanted to cry.

“Madeline, may I help you? I’ve put your grandmother to bed for the night. Could you use a hand?”

The sound of Gretchen’s pleasant voice soothed the knots in Maddie’s stomach. “Oh Gretchen, that would be wonderful. I’ve got two more pans of these chess squares to cut, I need to glaze all those loaves of poppyseed bread now that they’re cooled, and the first batch of blueberry scones are ready to take out of the oven. Could you take them out and put them on the cooling racks?”

“Wouldn’t mind a bit. Your grandmother is so proud of you, sweetheart. I think she’s as excited about tomorrow as you are.” Gretchen’s easy laugh softly blanketed the room. “We’ve got her new dress all pressed and ready. She’ll be a vision for your grand opening tomorrow. I promise.”

Maddie blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes then rinsed her hands before cutting more of the gooey squares. “Gretchen, do you think she’s up to this? Do you think it might all be too much for her?”

“Not at all! She’ll be your greatest asset, you watch. And I don’t want you to worry about her a ‘tall. I’ll keep a close eye to make sure she’s not overdoing it. If she is, I’ll take her back to her room to rest a spell.”

Maddie lifted the empty pan, dumping it into the sudsy water in the sink. “You’re an angel. You have no idea what a tremendous relief it is having you here.” She tore off a big sheet of clear wrap then covered the platter of chess squares.

“Maddie, here are the menus.”

Lanie walked into the kitchen, a large box balanced on her hip. “I had them print fifty, thinking you could add more as you need them.”

Maddie fought the disturbing tug, the same pull she felt each time she heard the strange monotone in Lanie’s voice. She cleared her throat before responding. “Are you pleased with them?”

“Very. Take a look.” She opened the box, handing Maddie the finished product of their collaboration.

“Oh Lanie, they’re—beautiful! These are amazing!” Maddie leaned in to give her a hug, but stopped, realizing her mistake. She moved to the kitchen table, focusing instead on the exquisite art work and layout of their menu.

“I just can’t believe it’s really happening, can you? Remember that day at Chawton Cottage, touring Jane Austen’s home? And we had this idea for a tea room, right here in Austin? Remember how we laughed, thinking how proud Jane would be of us?”

A guarded smile. “I remember.”

Maddie watched, visualizing the same scenes no doubt playing through Lanie’s mind—their unforgettable trip with all its thrills and fantasies. But just as quickly, Lanie blinked it all away.

“I’ll be back early in the morning. Good night, Gretchen. Maddie.”

Lanie let herself out the back door. Maddie stared after her, losing the battle with the war raging inside her. She excused herself, asking Gretchen to close the kitchen down for the night. She grabbed her sweater from the closet, wrapped a knitted scarf around her neck, then let herself out the front door. Lanie’s red taillights disappeared down the street just as the dam broke.

Maddie wept, reliving the grief all over again, wondering if it was truly the end of their life-long friendship. She’d tried to give Lanie space and time to get over the pain of that night. But now, weeks later, it was obvious their relationship was doomed. The fatigue and stress of the grand opening overwhelmed her, sending wave upon wave of tears. She cried so hard, she was afraid she might throw up.

“Excuse me, but is this the home of Maddie Cooper?”

Maddie looked up from her cocoon on the wicker loveseat, searching for the source of the voice. She wiped her face. “Who wants to know?”

Chapter 11

My name is Jeffrey Townsend. I need to speak to Maddie, if she’s home.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you Maddie?” He stepped off the sidewalk, following the brick path to the porch.

How do I know that name? The lamp in the living room window cast just enough light on the tall stranger dressed in sweater and jeans, a jaunty hat covering his thick curly brown hair.

Maddie slipped the kerchief off her head and wiped her nose with it, embarrassed to think how she must look even in the shadows on the porch. “Um, yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He climbed the steps, tilting his head to see her better. “I’m Jeffrey Townsend. I’m an English fellow at UCLA and a member of the Jane Austen Society of America. And I’m in love with Lanie Morgan.”

He stepped onto the porch, digging his hands into his pockets. “Do you know me now?” His eyebrows arched.

Maddie gasped to see the man behind the dreaded name standing on her porch. “Jeff? Lanie’s Jeff?”

“Well, I had hoped so at one point. But that all depends on you.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

He walked over to the empty chair beside her and sat down. She could make out his features beneath the stylish cap—surprised to find one of the kindest faces she’d ever seen. Dimples the size of Texas and eyes that sparkled even in the darkness of night.

“A few weeks ago, Lanie and I had a fight because of you.”

“I know. It was horrible of me and I—”

“Yes, it was horrible of you. I believe Lanie was falling in love with me until you intruded and pushed her into the arms of someone who rejected her. I could deal with that—in fact, I have to say I was relieved he wasn’t interested in her. His loss, my gain, I guess you could say,” he continued. “Only Lanie didn’t see it that way at all. She was shaken by the whole thing, said she felt ‘unworthy’ of me, that I ‘deserved better than someone so easily led astray by a mere infatuation.’ Now she won’t even talk to me. She quit signing online; she won’t return my phone calls . . .”

When he paused, Maddie blew out a long, weary sigh. Seconds passed before she spoke. “Jeff, I don’t know what to say. I’ve screwed up everything—for you, for Lanie—and for the friendship I’ve cherished since I was a little girl. Lanie is the best friend I’ve ever had. But now all that’s changed because of what I did. She won’t talk about it—refuses to accept my apology. I’m at a total loss. I—I don’t know what to do.” Fresh tears stung her eyes.

Jeff leaned forward. “Really? I had no idea. Lanie used to talk about you all the time. I didn’t know she’d shut you out too. This is worse than I thought.”

She could only nod her head, quietly weeping.

“Maddie, I came over here first because I wanted to meet you for myself. See if you really were as heartless as I had imagined.”

His words felt like a slap to the face. Maddie cried out, dropping her head in her hands. Her sobs drifted through the night air like the siren on an ambulance.

“No! No,” he insisted, touching her arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you! The thing is, I envisioned you as this manipulative witch of a friend—”

Her sobs escalated to a full scale wail.

“No! No, you’re taking this all wrong! It’s obvious you’re not like that at all! I can tell you love Lanie as much as I do. And the way I see it, there’s only one thing to do. I’m going to see her right now and straighten this all out. For all of us.”

He jumped up, rushing off as Maddie stood in his wake. He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Oh, forgive my manners,” he laughed, hurrying back to hug her. “It’s nice to meet you, Maddie Cooper. And I look forward to getting to know you.”

With that, he ran down the stairs and across the lawn to a car she hadn’t noticed. “Oh, by the way—where does Lanie live?”

Maddie shouted the easy directions then watched him pull away from the curb. “Jeff? Computer geek Jeff? Looks like that?” She drew a ragged breath and started back inside when she heard a car door slam. For a moment she thought he’d returned, but immediately spotted the black car parked in the driveway at Bradford House.

“Madeline? Is that you?”

Ian leaned around the car, looking toward her.

No, no, no—please don’t come over here!

He strolled across the street. “I was hoping I might see you tonight. I wanted to offer my best wishes for your grand opening tomorrow. I’m sure it will be a smashing success. Getting a bit of fresh air, are you? You must be positively exhausted. What, with all the preparations.”

Ian slowly climbed the steps, a warm smile spreading across his face. Oh, why does he have to be so handsome? Maddie wiped her face, sniffing the flood from her nose. Her breaths came in wild hiccups. “Exhausted? Look at me! There’s nothing left. Nothing,” she squeaked, unleashing the floodgates again.

He blinked, eyes wide open. “Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?”

“Oh, I assure you it is! I’m so tired, I haven’t a clue what else needs to be done before tomorrow. And now my best friend hates me . . . she hates me!” She nodded vigorously, affirming the truth of her words as they spilled out faster and faster like some runaway train. The waterworks in her nose continued to run like a broken faucet. “Then Jeff the Computer Geek shows up at my doorstep, professing his love for my aforementioned former best friend, who’s apparently shunned his affection because I interfered and pushed her into the arms of Brad the Contractor who, as it turns out, was more interested in me, when all the while I thought he might be a good match for Lanie, which of course devastated her.”

She stopped to wipe her nose, wailing out loud again. He offered his handkerchief. She cried harder at the kindness, accepted, and immediately blew into it with an earsplitting honk.

She sighed heavily, nodding her head with renewed vigor. “Oh, it devastated her. Not because Brad didn’t want her but that he wanted me, when I’d literally pushed her at him and because of my stupid misreading of all that, now she’ll refuse to ever get married and Jeff will die of a broken heart and—and—and now you show up, the man who blasted me on the airplane then rebuffed my every attempt at kindness . . . Now you show up in the middle of the night, as nice as you please, offering me your handkerchief and your best wishes for success tomorrow? ARE YOU CRAZY?!”

“Great Scott! Take a breath, will you?” Ian loosened the scarf about his neck, his skin suddenly damp and clammy. “I feel as though I’ve stepped into one of those soap operas on your American telly. But surely—”

She dissolved into unrestrained blubbering. Not knowing what else to do, Ian pulled her into his arms. He felt her melt at once into his embrace. “There now, there now, Maddie.”

She cried even harder, the sobs shaking her body. Finally, she murmured against his shoulder. “I was so sure God called me to help others find love. And just look what’s happened. I’ve ruined everyone’s life.”

He simply held her, stroking her hair, whispering quietly in her ear. “Shhh . . . don’t cry, Madeline. Don’t cry.”

“I must be a sight,” she moaned. She stole another look at him, her nose red and her lashes wet. “I—I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Apparently I needed a shoulder to cry on.”

He pulled her closer into his embrace, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Maddie, I have a confession to make.”

“You do?”

“I’ve wanted to hold you like this . . . for some time now.”

She pulled back, her face etched with confusion. “What? I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid there’s quite a lot you don’t understand about me. But if you’ll give me a chance, I’d like to change that.” He led her to the wicker loveseat, then sat beside her, taking both her hands in his.

“I was an absolute beast to you on that plane. It was inexcusable. And I’m afraid it set us off to a very bad start. You see, it’s only been a couple of weeks since—since my eyes were opened, if you will, so that I could see what a contemptuous, insolent man I’d become. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, that’s all gone now. I’ve learned how desperately important it is to learn how to forgive. And I wish very much to offer my apologies for my previous behavior and ask for a new start.”

She stared at him. A hiccup quirked her body.

“I know, I know. But you must believe me—I am a changed man.”

She blinked, then looked over his shoulder. “That must make your girlfriend very happy.”

“Girlfriend? But I don’t—” He followed her line of vision, his eyes landing on the BMW across the street. “Ohhh . . . . no, that’s not what . . . oh my, then you must have seen—”

“I was sitting here on the porch that night. You opened the door and then she kissed you so tenderly, and, well, I just assumed, since the car is there all the time now—”

“Maddie,” he chuckled. “You’re quite mistaken. I assure you no one is living with me, nor do I have a ‘girlfriend.’”

“You don’t? I mean, you don’t! I mean—oh . . .” Her face crimsoned. “Because to be perfectly honest,” she looked back into his eyes, “and I think it’s time I learn to be perfectly honest, don’t’ you? Then I would have to tell you—”

He pulled her into his arms again, silencing her with the kiss he could no longer hold back. Maddie responded, slow at first, then with such eagerness, it took his breath away. At last, when he pulled away and looked at her, he discovered the most enchanting smile on her face and eyes gazing back at him with unabashed pleasure.

“No girlfriend,” he breathed, kissing her forehead. “Unless . . .”

“Wait—Ian,” she gasped, pulling back abruptly, running her hands through her hair. “You don’t even know me. Yet you say you’ve wanted to hold me? I don’t understand.”  She searched his eyes for meaning.

“Oh, but you’re wrong.” Ian traced her jaw with his thumb. “I know a great deal about you, Miss Cooper. I know that you’ve cared for your grandmother selflessly for many years.” He smiled. “And yes, I overheard that part on the plane.”

“How very rude of you, Dr. Grant,” she teased.

“I know that you love your grandmother very much. I’ve seen you on this porch with her, singing together while you arrange flowers, consulting her with every stem you add. Having tea together, working crossword puzzles together. And I’ve watched how you lavish her with your kisses and smother her with your hugs.

“I’ve seen how you treat the work crew over here. Some of them don’t even speak English, yet I’ve watched you serve them elaborate picnics here on the front porch.” He tipped her chin to face him closer. “And I have it on good authority that you often leave baskets of muffins and cookies on the doorstep of perfect strangers. Even ill-tempered ones who never offer so much as a thank you. Quite delicious pastries, I might add. Not a single crumb survived.”

“Ian, I don’t know what to say.” She nestled her head against his chest, burrowing deeper into his arms. She felt her heart beating against his. I could stay right here for a lifetime.

“That’s easy,” he whispered into her hair. “Just say you’ll do me the honor of allowing me to court you as a proper English gentleman who’d love nothing more than to spend a lifetime getting to know you, Maddie Cooper.”

Chapter 12

The grand opening of The Chawton Tea Room was a huge success. By eleven, it was necessary for Lanie to take names as the customers far outnumbered the available seating. Every nook and cranny of the downstairs filled with patrons who enjoyed a traditional English tea menu and browsed the many Jane Austen artifacts and books decorating the festive tea room. The local newspaper covered the event, promising to splash the smiles of delighted customers on its pages the next day.

But no one was happier than Maddie Cooper. Early that morning, Lanie and Jeff appeared in her kitchen, faces beaming. In a flurry of apologies and cries of joy, Lanie and Maddie mended their friendship, thanks to the persistent diplomacy of a certain California computer geek. And when Lanie announced their engagement, Maddie’s shout of joy could surely be heard down the block.

“Oh, Lanie! Nothing could make me happier! Nothing! This is spectacular! And to think you did it in spite of me!”

“Miracles never cease, eh, Maddie?” Lanie laughed, hugging her best friend again.

Jeff hugged Maddie as well, as if they’d been friends for years, promising he would take good care of Lanie. “Oh, and Maddie? In case you’re interested, I’ve got a whole computer lab full of friends I could introduce you to.”

Her mouth fell open until she realized he was kidding. “Oh yeah, really funny. No, I think all efforts of matchmaking should hereby cease and desist. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” they shouted in unison.

“Besides,” Maddie added, “I’m not really in the market. But that’s all I’m going to say about that.” Her eyes danced mischievously. “Hey! We’ve got a tea room to open today! We’ve got work to do!”

“Maddie?” Lanie drawled, cocking her head to one side. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Yes! Lots and lots! But there’s no time now. Here, put on your apron and get to work. Jeff? Would you like to jump in and help too?” She handed him one of the bib aprons she’d designed—the Chawton Tea Room logo monogrammed against a classic English chintz background, and handed Lanie one as well.

“Consider it done,” Jeff offered, already pulling an apron over his head. “Just put me to work.”

“I knew I’d love him,” Maddie teased.

“So did I, girlfriend. So did I.” Lanie planted a kiss on Jeff’s cheek, which quickly blushed a soft shade of crimson, and nuzzled into his embrace.

Jonathan arrived an hour later with an enormous bouquet of pale pink roses smothered in baby’s breath. “For the belle of the ball, my dear,” he announced, kneeling beside Nana and kissing her freshly-rouged cheek. “At your service, today and forever, Rachel Cooper.” Nana’s eyes sparkled in ready adoration. Maddie wasn’t sure what to make of those two, but had a feeling about them—one which now she gladly kept to herself.

A few moments later, one more early bird arrived at the front door.

“Ian!” Maddie felt the heat on her cheeks as she returned his smile.

“Forgive me if I’m intruding at this hour. I wondered—well, I thought perhaps I could be of assistance to you somehow today. Maybe pour a spot of tea, clear a dish or two, park a car or mop the floor . . .”

Maddie snuggled into his extended arms, wrapping her arms around his neck as she kissed him firmly on the lips.

“Well, now! I take that as a yes?” He kissed her back, this time more gently, taking his time.

At last, Maddie pulled back. “But of course you may assist, Dr. Grant,” she intoned. “How could I possibly welcome my guests to an authentic English tea without the presence of an authentic Englishman?”

“Well there you have it!” Ian backed out of her embrace, taking a deep bow.

Maddie introduced Ian to Nana and Jonathan then reacquainted him with Lanie. He begged Lanie’s forgiveness, taking her hand into his. She burst into laughter, then pulled him into a hug. In her best English accent, she responded, “Jolly good form, Ian Grant. Jolly good form!”

“Thank you, my dear girl, but do us all a favor today and leave the accent to me. Will you?”

“Gladly, old chap. Gladly.”

They all shared more laughter before scattering in different directions, jumping into the tasks at hand.

Hours later, after The Chawton Tea Room closed its doors on its first day of business, a small after-party gathered around the kitchen table. With fresh pots of tea and the few remaining pastries before them, the group basked in the glory of the day. Maddie leaned against Ian, sighing with pleasure. “We did it. We actually did it.”

Lanie raised her cup. “To Maddie, for making dreams come true.”

“Here, here!” they answered in unison.

Nana joined in the toasts. “To Lanie, for finding it in your heart to forgive a dear friend, and finding love in the process.”

Jeff kissed Lanie’s cheek as another “here, here!” rang out.

Jonathan lifted his teacup. “To Rachel, whose quiet strength and courage inspire us all.”

“Here, here!”

Ian cleared his throat, raising his teacup as well. Maddie smiled when she realized it was the same cup she’d brought back from Chawton Village in England. The very same cup she’d unwrapped to admire on the flight home, seated behind a quite irritable Scrooge of a professor who’d scolded her and Lanie for their “incessant chatter.” She dipped her head, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing out loud at the memory. Could that cranky Englishman actually be the warm and caring man seated beside her now, his fingers snuggly entangled with hers below the table?

“Lanie. Maddie. Mrs. Cooper?” Ian began. “I salute you for your success today. Jane Austen could not have done it better herself. Take that from a true Englishman.”

“Here, here!”

He took a sip then turned to Maddie, bringing her hand to his lips, then speaking just to her, barely above a whisper. “To new life, new friends, and new beginnings.” Then, with his eyes locked on hers, he bestowed a long gentle kiss on her hand.

Leaning over, Maddie placed a perfect kiss against his warm lips.

“Here, here, Ian Grant,” she whispered. “Here, here.”

Epilogue

With ridiculously exaggerated flair, I typed the last two words on the page:

The End

I punched my fists straight up in the air. “YESSSSSS! I’m fi-nished. I’m fi-nished. I’m fi-nal-ly fi-nal-ly fi-nished!” I cranked up the volume on my laptop speakers and jumped up from my desk chair. As Michael Jackson’s eccentric voice quirked the first lyrics of Thriller, I mimicked his famous moves, complete with ghoulish expressions and syncopated side steps—even throwing in an ad-libbed moonwalk across my hardwood floor. That October weekend we all used Shirley’s Wii to learn the King of Pop’s dance moves had really paid off. I didn’t miss a beat.

Gertie jumped off her chair and twirled beside me, barking along for good measure. The two of us zombie-walked our way to the kitchen where I pulled a pint of Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip from the freezer. The dancing continued while I pried open the lid on the little carton then grabbed a spoon out of the drawer. Multi-tasking never felt better.

As with anything I attempt to accomplish these days, I was interrupted by the ringing of my doorbell. I dug out a scoop of the minty green ice cream and savored it as I headed toward the door. I did a modified zombie-walk down the hall with Gertie traipsing along behind me. I was about to open the door when I peered through the curtains and saw my UPS guy laughing. Make that guffawing.

I dropped my head then opened the door. “Okay. Fine. So you saw me dancing.”

“You do a wicked Thriller, Lucy. Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

I admit it. I love his dimples. I truly do. But even those sweet craters couldn’t distract my embarrassment. “It’s a long story and you don’t have the time. Hand it over.”

He handed the small carton to me, then shook his head, still laughing at my pitiful zombie. I had to admit it was a great laugh. The kind you feel all the way from your abs up. And might I just add, I’m quite sure that UPS-issue brown uniform shirt was hiding some killer abs. Not that I’ve seen them.

“Okay, okay, you’ve had your laugh, big guy. Where do I sign?”

“No need to sign for this one. You've just got me trained to make it personal, with or with a signature request. Besides, you’re always the highlight of my day.”

“Yeah, well, you must be starved for entertainment.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I know how to have a good time now and then.”

He smiled that crooked smile again. Like the cheek on the right forgot to pull up as much as the one on the left. He had no idea how cute that is.

My face heated, so I avoided eye contact. “Well, then, there you go. Have a good one, Mark. See you next time.”

“Sure thing. And give my best to Michael.” A wink and off he went, doing his best Michael in a silly falsetto.

I rolled my eyes, shut the door, and tossed the package on the side table. Just another case of tea. After doing my research on Maddie's behalf, I'd grown partial to her preferred brand, Taylors of Harrogate. I liked ordering it by the case because . . . well, if you must know, it’s one more excuse for the guy in brown to stop by. But let's just keep that between you and me, okay? I smiled and shook my head, continuing down the hall.

We walked back into the kitchen, my funny black Scottie tapping her nails on the hardwood as she tried to keep up, her long tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. I snatched the carton of Blue Bell and scooped out another bite of that heavenly blend of flavors when my cell chirped. I wouldn’t have heard it, but it was the part in Thriller where it’s mostly rhythm and percussion playing over and over. I dug in the front pocket of my jeans for my cell, debating whether or not I’d answer it. Samantha Graham. My editor. Crap. I had to take this.

I made my way back to my office and turned Michael down a few decibels. “Sam! It’s finished. You’re gonna love it. And we made deadline with time to spare!”

I was greeted with her usual cough, a raspy tribute to her two-pack-a-day habit. I pulled the cell away from my ear. A natural reflex, somehow sure if I don’t, my ear will be grossly baptized. Ew?

“You know those things are gonna kill you one of these days,” I reminded her. Again.

One final hack followed by a deep breath. “I know, I know. I don’t want to hear it. So you’re finally done. Why don’t I see it in my inbox?”

“Because you caught me in my Celebratory Ritual. Some things can’t be rushed. You know that.”

“Ah, that explains Michael in the background. Was that Thriller?”

“I love that about you, Sam. You don’t have a clue who’s in the White House or which team won the Super Bowl, but you know your Michael Jackson. You’re a regular Motown groupie.”

Another cough. Another deep breath. Then three clicks and an expletive.

“Your lighter still not working? Could be a sign to stop, you know.”

She ignored me. “When the song ends and you finish your ice cream, will you please send me your manuscript? I don’t need to remind you we have less than twenty-four hours until the official deadline.”

“It’s worth the wait, I promise you. This one—I don’t even know how to explain it. It wrote itself. I just tapped the keys. Never had that happen before.” I thought back to the day my aunt’s teacups arrived and the flood of memories and ideas that seemed to float out of that box.  “This one was truly a gift. I’m dedicating it to Lucille’s memory.”

“Ironic, since it was her funeral that put you so far behind schedule.”

I remembered Samantha’s stern lecture (that’s putting it nicely) when I insisted on flying to Chicago for Lucille’s memorial service. As if a silly deadline would keep me from being with my family at a time like that? “Be nice. I adored her.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Look, Lucy, just hurry up and send me what you’ve got. The design team is giving me grief here. Since you threw out the original story line, they’ve got to start from scratch, which puts them behind before they begin.”

“Giving you grief, are they? What’s that saying—what goes around, comes around? No problem. I’ll have it to you in ten.”

“Ciao mein.” Click.

“Ciao mein yourself,” I grumbled, dropping my cell back in my pocket. I took another lick of ice cream and reached for my keyboard. A couple of quick strokes and my sweet baby was up, up, and away in cyberspace, mere seconds from landing in Samantha’s Manhattan inbox. Mission accomplished.

I curled up in Gertie’s chair, much to her delight. She hopped up to join me, settling in with a final sigh of pleasure. I scratched the back of her neck as my mind wandered. Sam had short-circuited my celebration, but that was okay. I was already drifting into Phase Two of my post-manuscript ritual—the major let-down as I say goodbye to my characters. You live with these people, crawl around inside their heads for months on end, put every word in their mouths, only to close the book on them. So to speak. It’s just hard.

That said, I felt a glimmer of excitement at the prospect of starting the next novella in the series. I usually take a couple of weeks off between projects, but I couldn’t wait to get started. I gnawed at my lower lip, then gave in. I jumped up and reached over to pick up the red and gold teacup and saucer resting on the decorative shelf above my desk. It had served as my inspiration through the entire book I just completed. But it was time to move on.

I padded down the hall to the dining room and opened the door to my china cabinet. The sunlight streamed through the windows striping broad, bright lines across the room. Still, I turned the switch inside the cabinet door, illuminating the shelves and their precious contents. A slow smile crept across my face as I returned the cup and saucer to the empty spot on the second shelf. Alongside it, Aunt Lucille’s teacups were displayed in all their elegance, like so many members of the royal family all vying for my attention. I’d felt so honored to receive them after she passed away, especially knowing she’d included instructions in her will for them to go directly to me. Even the cabinet that now housed them was a gift from her, another surprise inheritance that arrived a couple months ago. As I touched each and every cup, I felt Lucille’s presence so near, I could swear I caught a whiff of her beloved Chanel No. 5.

“Well, that makes it official. You’re here with me. That means you have to help me pick the next one.”

I studied them all, trying to remember which design had sparked the story line buzzing around in my head. The plots all came to me so quickly that first day, but I neglected to jot myself a note as to which teacup set beckoned which story. But I knew she’d tell me.

“It’s an unusual plot. Not something you’d ever see coming. Which means it must be unique and—ah! Now I remember. This is the one.”

Tiny hand-painted bows in cobalt blue, very simple, each tied with an even smaller gold ribbon, all linked together in a unique net pattern, airy on a white background. The cup and saucer were both rimmed in gold as well, with an eyelet-like edging inside the cup. The cup handle was painted in a matching cobalt blue with just a touch of gold. I remember Aunt Lucille telling me about this famous Russian design, the Lomonosov Cobalt Net. I lifted it from the shelf even as the characters of my new story came to mind. “This is it. The one that mends a broken heart. It’s perfect.”

And just as I did the first time, I made a pot of tea and poured the steaming brew into my new cup of inspiration. I headed back to my office and set the cup beside my keyboard. Browsing through my music files, I found the collection I wanted—Sounds of the Sea. I loved these songs, all accompanied by the lapping of waves against the beach and the call of sea gulls in the distance. Soothing. Comforting somehow. I closed my eyes and could almost feel the ocean breeze against my skin. Smell the salt air. A couple more minutes of this, and I would surely drift off to sleep.

But the story couldn’t wait. Far away on the coast of Oregon, drama hovered restlessly in that salty night air. Lots and lots of drama, along with all that smoke and the wail of sirens in the distance . . .

Time to work. I sat up, took a sip of tea, and began typing my first page . . .

Keri! The Blankenship cabin is on fire! Get over here. Now!”

Oh, this is gonna be good . . .

To download Strike the Match,

Book Two of The Teacup Novellas click HERE.

Thanks for reading my book. Please take a

moment and post a review by clicking HERE.

For a Preview of my other novels click HERE

Tea with Emma – (Book One)

Strike the Match – (Book Two)

Home to Walnut Ridge – (Book Three)

At Legend’s End – (Book Four)

Acknowledgments

To my husband Ken, who’s the best idea man on the planet. I love our brainstorming lunches! Thanks for making my job so much fun along the way. There’s a golf cart in Hawaii with your name on it!

To Sally, my forever friend writing buddy who always keeps it real. Thanks for leading the way and inspiring me by your gazillion book sales!

To Teresa, my prayer “sistah” and dear friend. Thanks for being such a faithful cheerleader. And thanks for the special tea party that early morning we watched the Royal Wedding together. Your tea and scones surely rivaled those of the palace!

A Sampling of Recipes

from

THE CHAWTON TEA ROOM

Spencer's Chess Squares

Makes 24

Box of yellow cake mix (non-pudding)

4 eggs

16 ounces powdered sugar

1 stick butter, melted

8 ounces cream cheese

2 teaspoons lemon juice

Preheat oven to 350°.

Spray 9x13 cake pan or Pyrex with no-stick spray.

Mix dry cake mix, butter, and one egg. Spread in cake pan.

Mix cream cheese, three eggs, powdered sugar, and lemon juice.

Bake at 350° for 40 minutes or until crust is just golden brown.

Cool completely before cutting into one inch squares. Store in air-tight container.

Old World Raspberry Bars

A recipe from Teresa Nardozzi

2¼  cups all purpose flour

1 cup sugar

1 cup chopped pecans

1 cup butter, softened (2 sticks)

1 egg

10 ounce jar raspberry preserves

Preheat oven to 350°.

In a large mixing bowl, combine all the ingredients except preserves. Beat at low speed, scraping bowl often, until well mixed, about 2-3 minutes. Reserve 1 1/2 cups of the mixture and set aside.

Press remaining mixture into greased 8-inch square pan. Spread preserves to within 1/2-inch from edge. Crumble reserved mixture over preserves.

Bake for 40-50 minutes or until lightly browned.

Cool completely before cutting into bars.

Blueberry Scones

What’s a tea party without yummy scones?

2 cups all-purpose flour

¼ cup brown sugar, packed

1 tablespoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ cup butter, chilled

1 cup fresh blueberries, rinsed and dried

¾ cup half-and-half cream

1 egg

Preheat oven to 375°.

Cut butter into mixture of flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Add blueberries and toss to mix thoroughly. In another bowl, beat together cream and egg, then slowly pour this into the dry ingredients, stirring with rubber scraper until dough forms. Knead gently until it comes together, no more than three or four times. Do not over-work! Divide dough in half. On lightly floured board, shape each half into a 6-inch round. Cut into 6 wedges. Bake on ungreased cookie sheet about 20 minutes until golden brown. Serve warm.

Poppyseed Bread

A show-stopper every time!

3 cups all-purpose flour

1½ cups milk

2½ cups sugar

3 eggs

1½ teaspoons vanilla

1½ tablespoons poppyseeds

1½ teaspoons baking powder

1½ teaspoons salt

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1½ teaspoons almond extract

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Beat 2 minutes. Pour into 2 large or 4 mini-loaf pans (greased and floured). Bake 1 hour at 350 degrees (50 minutes for mini-loaf pans). Spoon glaze over loaves immediately in pans and let cool completely.

GLAZE:

¼ cup orange juice

2 teaspoons melted butter

¾ cup powdered sugar

Nana’s Crescent Chicken Squares

Always a favorite!

1 3-ounce package cream cheese, softened

3 tablespoons butter, melted

2 cups cooked cubed chicken

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

2 tablespoons milk

1 tablespoon minced onion

1 teaspoon Nature's Seasons (or spice of your preference)

1 tablespoon chopped pimento, optional

1 8-ounce can refrigerated crescent dinner rolls

3/4 cup seasoned croutons, crushed

Preheat oven to 350°.

Makes 4 servings (I always double this recipe!)

In medium bowl, blend cream cheese and 2 tablespoons butter until smooth. Add chicken, salt, pepper, milk, onion, seasoning spice and pimento (optional). Mix well.

Separate crescent dough into 4 rectangles; firmly press perforations to seal.

Spoon about 1/2 cup chicken mixture onto center of each rectangle of dough. Pull 4 corners of dough to top center of chicken mixture, twist slightly and seal edges. Brush tops with remaining butter, melted; sprinkle crouton crumbs on top of each square.

Place on ungreased baking sheet. Bake at 350° for 20-25 minutes or until golden brown.

Cranberry Chicken Salad Paninis

The chicken salad can also be prepared and served on a bed of salad greens.

3 cups cooked and cooled chicken, chopped

3 stalks celery, finely chopped

½ cup dried cranberries

½ cup chopped walnuts

¼ cup finely chopped scallions

1 cup Hellman's mayonnaise

2 tablespoon white wine vinegar

1 tablespoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard

Salt and pepper to taste

6 (½ ounce) slices Brie cheese

8 slices sourdough bread

¾ cup apricot preserves

Preheat panini press or indoor grill.

Combine chicken, celery, mayonnaise, scallions, cranberries, vinegar, lemon juice, mustard, salt, and pepper and mix well. Assemble sandwiches by layering four slices of bread with the chicken salad filling, topping each with a slice of Brie and preserves (divided evenly). Top with remaining bread. Lightly butter one side of sandwich and place that side down onto heated panini press, then lightly butter topside of each sandwich. Cook each sandwich in the panini press until bread crisps and turns light gold.

Ambrosia Fruit Salad

So simple, but so good served with just about anything!

1 cup pineapple tidbits in their own juice

1 cup mandarin oranges

1 cup mini-marshmallows

1 cup sour cream

1 cup coconut

Mix all ingredients and chill thoroughly before serving.

Tea Punch

For a nice chilled and refreshing beverage

8 regular tea bags or 1 family size tea bag (enough to brew 1 gallon)

6 ounce pink lemonade frozen concentrate, thawed

6 ounce orange juice frozen concentrate, thawed

2 cups sugar

Bring 4 cups of water to boil. Take off heat and brew tea for exactly 4 minutes. Remove tea bags. Add sugar and stir thoroughly until melted. Add lemonade and orange juice and enough water to make 1 gallon. Chill, then stir each time before serving.

About the Author

Born in Texas and raised in Oklahoma, Diane Hale Moody is a graduate of Oklahoma State University. She lives with her husband Ken in the rolling hills just outside of Nashville. They are the proud parents of two grown and extraordinary children, Hannah and Ben.

Just after moving to Tennessee in 1999, Diane felt the tug of a long-neglected passion to write again. Since then, she’s written a column for her local newspaper, feature articles for various magazines and curriculum, and several novels with a dozen more stories eagerly vying for her attention.

When she’s not reading or writing, Diane enjoys an eclectic taste in music and movies, great coffee, the company of good friends, and the adoration of a peculiar little pooch named Darby.

Visit Diane's website at dianemoody.net and her blog, “just sayin’” at dianemoody.blogspot.com.

Go to the next page for more information about other fine books from OBT Bookz.

Other Titles from OBT Bookz

(click the title for more information)

From Author Diane Moody

Of Windmills and War

The Runaway Pastor’s Wife

Blue Christmas

Blue Like Elvis

Confessions of a Prayer Slacker

Tea with Emma

The Teacup Novellas (Book One)

Strike the Match

The Teacup Novellas (Book Two)

Home to Walnut Creek

The Teacup Novellas (Book Three)

At Legend’s End

The Teacup Novellas (Book Four)

From Author McMillian Moody

Ordained Irreverence

(Elmo Jenkins - Book One)

Some Things Never Change

(Elmo Jenkins - Book Two)

The Old Man and the Tea

(Elmo Jenkins - Book Three)

The Elmo Jenkins Trilogy

Table of Contents

What Others are Saying About

Other Titles from OBT Bookz

From Author McMillian MoodyOrdained Irreverence – Elmo Jenkins (Book 1Some Things Never Change – Elmo...

Special Bonus Book

Tea with Emma – (Book One)

From Author McMillian MoodyOrdained Irreverence – Elmo Jenkins (Book 1)Some Things Never Change – Elm...

Copyright 2012 by Diane Moody

New Look, Same BookIn 2010,

To Ken

How long will you stay in bed, you slacker?

O God, you are my God, earnestly

I was crying to the LORD with my voiceAnd He answered me from His holy mountain—PSALM 3:4, NASB

The person who really wants to do something finds a way; the other person finds an excuse.—AUTHOR UNK...

He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

I don’t have time to pray I’m too busy!

But if from there you seek the LORD your God, you will find Him if you look for him with all your hea...

But if from there you seek the LORD your God, you will find Him if you look for him with all your hea...

The seeds of great discoveries are constantly floating around us, but they only take root in minds we...

We look upon prayer simply as a means of getting things for ourselves, but the biblical purpose of p...

To get the full flavor of an herb, it must be pressed between the fingers, so it is the same with the...

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for...

Pray then like this . . .—MATTHEW 6:9A (ESV)

Hear my prayer, O LORD,

The one concern of the devil is to keep Christians from praying. He fears nothing from prayerless stu...

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.—2 TIMOTHY 1:...

For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.—...

Introduction

If there has never been a time when you invited Jesus into your life to be your Lord and Savior, I wo...

I can honestly say this book is the direct result of some holy nudging on the part of God. Over and o...

Introduction1.Whittaker Chambers, Witness

About the Author

Don’t miss a sampling of recipes

Don’t miss a sampling of recipes

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of t...

Tea with Emma – (Book One)

The Teacup NovellasBook OneDiane Moody “

“

PrologueA

Chapter 1B

Chapter 2“I

Chapter 3I

Chapter 4M

Chapter 5“M

Chapter 6M

Chapter 7I

Chapter 8M

Chapter 9I

Chapter 10A

Chapter 11M

Chapter 12T

EpilogueW

Tea with Emma – (Book One)

Acknowledgments

A Sampling of Recipes

Old World Raspberry Bars

Blueberry Scones

Poppyseed Bread

Nana’s Crescent Chicken Squares

Cranberry Chicken Salad Paninis

Ambrosia Fruit Salad

Tea Punch

About the Author

Other Titles from OBT Bookz

From Author McMillian MoodyOrdained Irreverence(Elmo Jenkins - Book One)Some Things Never Change(Elmo...